He led the way round to the little room which he used as a private office. It was entered from outside, and being detached from the house was out of earshot of the other inmates.
“First of all,” he began when they were seated, “I want to apologise for what I said that day when—”
“Oh, shut up, Le Sage,” interrupted Wyvern, bringing his hand hard down into that of the other, and enclosing it in a firm grip. “I don’t want to hear another word about that, just as I’ve never given it another thought—not a resentful one at any rate. I can quite see the matter from your point of view—could at the time in fact. Now then, what’s this business matter you want to talk over? Is it about Lalanté?”
“No. It’s about myself.”
Wyvern had already noticed an alteration in Le Sage’s manner and also appearance. The old touch of confident assertiveness seemed to have gone, moreover he looked older and greyer. Now he seemed to look more so still.
“About yourself?” repeated Wyvern, with visions of weak heart or latent disease in the speaker, rising before him.
“Yes. Would it surprise you to hear that I’m practically a ruined man?”
“I should think it would. Good God, Le Sage, you can’t really mean it!”
“I wish I didn’t, but it’s a fact. It’s of no use bothering you with details, Wyvern, for I’ve heard you say one couldn’t shoot a man with a worse head for business than yourself even if you fired a shot-gun up and down the most crowded streets of London all day. Of course saying I wanted your advice was only a blind,” he added with a wan smile.
“But, briefly, how did it happen?”