“No,” I said; “to escape by it.”
His hand went up to his glasses. He glared at me through their restored focus.
Watchful of him, lest, before I could explain, he should silence me provisionally with some stunning blow, I ventured to approach him a little nearer.
“There’s killing,” I whispered, “going on down there—a poor old man in a grey coat.”
He started violently, and pulling his jaw down, uttered a sort of mechanical crow, and let it go again.
“Grey!” he muttered. “It’s the steward, then. He didn’t give me away, did he?”
I shook my head dumbly. He was readjusting his glasses to meet the answer.
“Ay,” he gulped, swallowing with relief, “poor Mackenzie! And to think that for all his loyalty he must burn!”
I whispered, “Why must he?”
“Because,” he said, “he wasn’t of the faith.”