Dagara had no jump left in him, poor fellow, and tried to refuse to get in at all. But with my help he stumbled in and sat staring helplessly at me, as I talked a lot of nonsense about chess—to give him time to pull himself together.
“Where are you taking me, Mr. Donnington?” he asked when I had chattered myself almost out of breath.
“He is driving us down to a landing-stage and I’m going to give you some lunch on my yacht. I have had a desire for a chat with you for several days.”
“I am much obliged to you, Mr. Donnington, but I cannot go now.”
“Oh, nonsense. I’ll make excuses to M. Volheno.”
“But I will not go. I won’t be forced in this way,” he cried, striving hard to rally his courage.
“Of course I won’t force you. I’ll stop the carriage.” I leant forward as if to call to the driver, and then turned with a meaning look. “By the way, did you find that missing letter the other day?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I demand to get out.”
“I know why it was missing, M. Dagara. Would you rather lunch with me or shall we return together to M. Volheno? Decide quickly, please. It must be one or the other.”
He drew a sobbing breath of fright; and all thought of resistance was abandoned.