Sir Percy made no reply. He was contemplating the polish which he had just succeeded in producing on his thumbnail.
“I must stay here for a while longer,” continued Armand firmly. “I may not be able to return to England for some weeks. You have the three others here to help you in your enterprise outside Paris. I am entirely at your service within the compass of its walls.”
Still no comment from Blakeney, not a look from beneath the fallen lids. Armand continued, with a slight tone of impatience apparent in his voice:
“You must want some one to help you here on Sunday. I am entirely at your service... here or anywhere in Paris... but I cannot leave this city... at any rate, not just yet....”
Blakeney was apparently satisfied at last with the result of his polishing operations. He rose, gave a slight yawn, and turned toward the door.
“Good night, my dear fellow,” he said pleasantly; “it is time we were all abed. I am so demmed fatigued.”
“Percy!” exclaimed the young man hotly.
“Eh? What is it?” queried the other lazily.
“You are not going to leave me like this—without a word?”
“I have said a great many words, my good fellow. I have said ‘good night,’ and remarked that I was demmed fatigued.”