The situation was very serious. No longer had the Exiles’ Club the slightest hold over King Smith. Nor did it seem likely that the King’s association with Lechworthy would be confined to the business venture. The King, Sir John had guessed, had other schemes. A desperate crisis must sometimes be dealt with in a desperate way, and of the desperate ways it is better to say as little as possible. If one uses the knife to cut the knot and all comes free, it may be more comfortable afterwards to ignore what has happened and to hide the knife. Sir John spoke of the departure of the Snowflake, for this was, or would be in an hour, pretty generally known, but he was not going to babble of the situation to irresponsible people. He was careful to emphasise the note of indulgent good-humour, and gave no indication of the anxiety that tortured him.
Dr Soames Pryce came across the lawn with irritating slowness, rolling a cigarette as he walked. He greeted Sir John and the other two men, and made one or two poignant observations on the personal appearance of Lord Charles. Then he turned to the parrot.
“Nice morning, Polly, ain’t it?”
“Hell to you, sir!” said that profane fowl promptly.
Sir John showed pardonable signs of impatience. “Hanson and Mast have been waiting in the secretary’s room for some time,” he said.
“Sorry. I’ll come.”
But in the hall a further interruption took place. Thomas came forward.
“Beg pardon, sir, but one of the native boys has got his eye a good deal cut about. Gentleman threw a glass at him yesterday.”
“Never mind that now. Another time.” said Sir John.
“No,” said Pryce, “I must go and have a look at him. I shan’t be long, probably. Meanwhile, you and the others can get through all the formal business—you don’t want me for that. You’ve explained the situation?”