The consul ostentatiously dropped the extinguisher from his candlestick. The party looked up quickly. Their faces were still flushed and agitated, but a new restraint seemed to come upon them on seeing him.
“I thought I heard a row outside,” said the consul explanatorily.
They each looked at their host without speaking.
“Oh, ay,” said Macquoich, with simulated heartiness, “a bit fuss between the Kilcraithie and yon Frenchman; but they're baith goin' in the mornin'.”
“I thought I heard MacSpadden's voice,” said the consul quietly.
There was a dead silence. Then Macquoich said hurriedly:—
“Is he no' in his room—in bed—asleep,—man?”
“I really don't know; I didn't inquire,” said the consul with a slight yawn. “Good night!”
He turned, not without hearing them eagerly whispering again, and entered the passage leading to his own room. As he opened the door he was startled to find the subject of his inquiry—Jock MacSpadden—quietly seated in his armchair by his fire.
“Jock!”