"On my word of honour," he declared in that same hypnotized tone, and dropped the pipe again, "I haven't thought of this for years. Maybe you jogged it into my bead. Maybe it's sheer imagination. But I have an impression that I looked up."
‘Towards the roof?"
"No, no! I didn't connect the governor with anything like 'death' or all the terms you might imply. It was a vague kind of wonder what he was doing down here instead of up there. I looked at an upper window, I think to the right of the front door. And I saw.."
There was a sharp rapping on the inside of the open door to the road.
Martin Drake — shut out, almost forgotten, feeling a sharp-twinge of jealousy at the absorption of these two in each other and their long familiarity — Martin jerked up his head at that rapping. The other two started as though they had been burnt.
In the doorway stood a wiry, middle-sized man whose-pince-nez, except for its gold nose-clamp, seemed to fit into his eyes rather than advance outside them. His hair, cut en brosse, was iron-grey. In an ascetic face, with somewhat hollow cheeks, showed a narrow fastidious mouth. His whole air was one of fastidiousness and extreme precision; and he carried a medicine-case in his right hand.
Despite the bloodless mouth, his voice was vigorous if soft. He smiled at Jenny and Ricky, making the countenance pleasant and human, and then looked towards Martin.
"Captain Drake, I imagine?" he inquired. "I am Dr. Laurier."
(So he's been talking to grandma, eh? Why did Lady Brayle persist with that 'captain' when they'd finished another war two years ago? Gossip, flying and twisting! How much was known?)
"Just Mr. Drake," Martin said, "if you don't mind."