"I bought it six years ago. Had it put in perfect repair. The plumbing cost me—well! you know what old houses are."
Jeff turned upon him.
"Jim," said he quietly, "what's the matter?"
"Nothing's the matter," said Reardon, blustering. "My dear boy! I'm no end glad to see you."
"Oh, no," said Jeff. "No, you're not. You've kicked me out. What's the reason? My late residence? Oh, come on, man! Didn't expect to see me? Didn't want to? That it?"
Suddenly the telephone rang, and the English man-servant came out and said, with a perfect decorum:
"Mrs. Blake at the telephone, sir."
Jeff was looking at Reardon when he got the message and saw his small blue eyes suffused and the colour hot in his cheeks. The blond well-kept man seemed to be swelling with embarrassment.
"Excuse me," he said, got up and went inside, and Blake heard his voice in brief replies.
When he came back, he looked harassed, fatigued even. His colour had gone down and left him middle-aged. Jeff had not only been awaiting him, but his glance had, as well. His eyes were fixed upon the spot where Reardon's face, when he again occupied his chair, would be ready to be interrogated.