Mr. Challoner strolled on, came to where the book lay, and picked it up with the amiable intention of putting it on the chair to save its cover from the damp. As he did this, he read the title on the back. Then there was a dreadful pause.
“Is this yours, Martin?” he asked.
“Yes, father.”
Mr. Challoner said nothing more, but went on his way, taking the book with him. At the corner of the box-hedge, however, he turned.
“If you are up when I come back, Martin,” he said, “will you come into my study? But don’t wait up for me if I am late.”
He turned his back again to walk on, and Martin thought he had gone. But next moment he paused again, and raised his voice slightly.
“You should answer when I speak to you,” he said.
“I thought you had gone, sir,” said Martin, with a little tremor of irritation in his tone.
This time he passed out of sight, and Martin threw down his croquet-mallet.
“Rather bad luck,” he said. “I’m not popular to-day. Helen, what a fool you were to leave it on the grass.”