He could hear a faint murmur of voices below. Then steps came up the stairs, and the voices became audible. The two men were standing at the top of the stairs now.
“You’ve no reason to be nervous,” said a querulous voice, which Pentwin recognised as Mast’s. “You can depend on me, Sir John.”
“But can I?” said a deeper voice. “It will be at the risk of your life.”
“Why can’t you tell me plainly here, and now what it is? Why wait? I’ve shown discretion?”
“Of late? Yes. But don’t talk so loudly.”
“I don’t care one straw about the risk of my life. When the time comes for me to make good my word I shall do it. I’m only too glad that you’ve given me the chance. It amuses Dr Pryce to treat me as a fool and a baby. He’ll see. Well, that doesn’t matter, I don’t want to talk about myself.”
“Quite right. Don’t talk—it’s what you do which counts. Now you’ve got to be patient. You can’t eat your dinner till it’s cooked. You—”
The voices died away down the passage. Pentwin heard a shutting of doors. All was still. “Now,” thought Pentwin, “I wonder what game is on there.” But it troubled him very little, and in a few minutes he was asleep.