And, after all, the summons of Dr Pryce to the palace to attend Lechworthy’s niece was all to the good. He would be in the position of a spy in the enemy’s camp. Probably, by the evening, he would return with news of the relations of Lechworthy and the King. Uncertainties would be cleared up, and it would be easier to see what to do. And yet another point occurred to Sir John. Suppose that Pryce saved the life of Lechworthy’s niece, Lechworthy’s gratitude would be unbounded, and he would be ready to do anything to show it. Pryce would refuse money, but he might ask Lechworthy to leave the Exiles’ Club alone, to refrain from policeman’s work, to do nothing which would give the secret away. Thus thinking, Sir John fell asleep again.
He rose late, breakfasted in his room, and then sought out the Rev. Cyril Mast.
“I want you,” said Sir John. “Pryce has been called away, and we are the only two on the committee for the moment. Come to the secretary’s room.”
“Very well,” said Mast, dejectedly, and followed him.
The two sat at the table facing one another. Mast’s red-rimmed eyes fell on the little glass of small shot with which Bassett had been wont to clean his pens. He could recall the nervous jabbing movement of Bassett’s hand as he did it. Bassett’s three cork penholders lay in a tray before him.
“You can say what you like,” said Mast. “Whatever you say I deserve it. I ought never to have brought the Lechworthys here. I couldn’t foresee that Bassett would come out and Lechworthy would recognise him. It was all wrong, though.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Do you never feel sometimes that you’d like to talk to a few decent people who didn’t know your history? I’ve been nearly mad. And—well, it was you who began it.”
“Indeed? And what had I got to do with it?”