Miss Damon had gone downstairs, and there sat the convalescent in the big chair by the window. Ogden gasped. The secretary stared.
Freshly shaved, the rich folds of the dressing-gown about him, his feet in the glinting mules on the footrest, his handsome head leaning against the white upholstery of the armchair, he formed a picture which filled one of his guests with enthusiasm, and the other with fury.
“Is this the Rajah of Nankagorah!” cried Ogden.
Hugh’s heart leaped with a combination of joy and rage. It was ages since he had seen a soul who knew him, and here was the reason. He wanted to hug him. He wanted to choke him.
He kicked away the stool, pulled himself to his feet and showed his teeth in a snarling sort of smile. “Damn you, Ogden!” he said.
John Ogden laughed and, striding forward, threw an arm around the satin-clad shoulders.
“Which is the safe hand? Which arm was it?” he asked.
“They’re both safe to do for you one of these days,” returned Hugh, clutching his friend.
The secretary waited for no more. The apparition of Miss Frink’s extravagance and its stunning effect roused a fever of resentment in him. He went out and closed the door. He continued to stand outside it for a minute, but the old house was well built and the voices within were low. He moved away and downstairs, and was just in time to see Miss Frink going out the front door, attired in wrap and hat.
“Dear lady, aren’t you coming into the study?”