That evening a man moved along the Terrace, halted as though he were minded to turn back, moved on and at last knocked at Barrington’s door. While he waited he mopped his forehead; his manner was furtive.
Once inside the hall he became important, handing his card with a flourish. Left alone while the maid announced his presence, he fiddled with his necktie and twisted his soaped mustaches.
Barrington burst in on him. “Anything the matter, old man?”
“Matter? ‘Course not.”
“Didn’t you know that Jehane went home this morning?”
“Got your telegram just as I was leaving. Had business in London. Couldn’t put it off.”
“Must have been important. She’ll be disappointed.”
“It was.”
“Suppose it’s too late for you to start to-night?” Barrington pulled out his watch. “Humph! Stop with us, won’t you?—Had dinner?—All right. Let’s go out. Nan’s in the garden.”
What was it that had brought him? Barrington kept asking himself that question. As usual, Ocky was voluble and plausible, but—— His high spirits were forced; he avoided the eye when watched. He rattled on about the possibilities of Sandport. He talked of the friends he had made—men whom Barrington guessed to be of no importance. He repeated his friends’ hilarious stories, “Here’s a good one John told me——” It was Ocky who discovered the humor in the story and laughed.