“I wonder whether you would mind not talking like that,” he said.
“Why not? I would not have you hear these things from other people. It is best to be truthful, is it not? To run no risk of any misunderstandings.”
“There is no fear of anything of that sort,” he said calmly. “I do not pretend to be a magician or a diviner, yet I think I know you for what you are, and it is sufficient. Some day——”
He broke off in the middle of a sentence. The door had opened. A man stood upon the threshold. The servant announced him—Mr. Thorndyke.
Matravers rose at once to his feet. He had a habit—the outcome, doubtless, of his epicurean tenets, of leaving at once, and at any costs, society not wholly agreeable to him. He bowed coldly to the man who was already greeting Berenice, and who was carrying a great bunch of Parma violets.
Mr. Thorndyke was evidently astonished at his presence—and not agreeably.
“Have you come, Mr. Matravers,” he asked coldly, “to make your peace?”
“I am not aware,” Matravers answered calmly, “of any reason why I should do so.”
Mr. Thorndyke raised his eyebrows, and drew an afternoon paper from his pocket.
“This is your writing, is it not?” he asked.