In the silence that followed for both men, now being alone, were alert, instinctively apprehending danger, John Thorpe drew from the inside pocket of his coat a small cigar case and tendered it to Rutley.
Silently and with studied poise, Rutley took therefrom a cigar and returned the case.
Thorpe then took from the case a match, lighted and offered it to Rutley, who, having meanwhile clipped the end of the cigar with a penknife, accepted the light and then broke the silence with, “Are you not going to smoke, Thorpe?”
“Not at present. A stroll through the grounds is more to my fancy.”
“Agreed!” promptly responded Rutley, who added, “and may the exercise lighten your spirits, which appear heavy tonight.”
“Yes, unfortunately I have never been able to conceal my emotions, hence the correctness of your conjecture. My spirits are heavy tonight,” replied Thorpe in a low voice and with a deep, long drawn sigh.
It was plain to Rutley that Thorpe was evading an abrupt approach to some potent question in his mind, feverishly eager, yet dreading the kind of information it might elicit.
“Bad digestion, Thorpe. Headaches, troubled dreams and the like fellow,” suggested Rutley in his jerky manner.
“Deeper!” added Thorpe in a low voice.
“Ha!” exclaimed Rutley significantly, as he eyed his companion askance. “Family!”