“Gad, man,” he exclaimed, as Grey came to him, “I fancied you weren’t to be here.”
He spoke with the pleasant brogue of the North of Ireland, and his voice and manner were as confidence-inspiring as had been his note.
Grey smiled, with something of embarrassment in his eyes. The very frankness of the other man was disconcerting. It had been comparatively easy to hide his simulation from the others, but now it was different. This big, hearty fellow was not only all honesty himself, but he inspired honesty—he demanded it.
“To tell the truth,” the American replied, feeling that a confession was about to be wrung from him, “I’ve had a rather wretched day.”
Jack looked at him keenly, his lips pressed tight in cogitation, as Grey ordered a grenadine.
“What’s the trouble, old chap?” he asked presently, throwing back his head and sending an inverted cone of cigarette smoke ceilingward. “Tell me about it; you don’t look well; you are pale and—by Jove! What’s the matter with your voice? You don’t speak like yourself. If I didn’t see you sitting there I’d fancy it was another man who spoke.”
“Would you, really?” Grey asked. The information, seeing that it was necessary for him to keep up his masquerade for awhile, was disconcerting.
“Really, you have quite lost something—or perhaps I should say you have gained something. Your tone now has some colour, some modulation. Yesterday you spoke like—you’ll pardon me, won’t you?—you spoke like an automaton.”
“Would you mind giving me an imitation?” Grey laughed. “Oh, yes, I am serious. I want to hear you. After awhile I’ll tell you why.”
“Since it is your pleasure, my dear Max,” Jack replied in an even drone at low pitch, “I am only too delighted to do as I am bidden. There you are! That’s not exaggerated the least bit, either.”