“Excellent!” he pronounced. “Almost as good a bottle as the first. A wonderful bin! Henry—my dear Henry!”
His brother handed the decanter across the table to Borroughes.
“You are aware, Bertram,” he said, “that two glasses of wine after dinner are all I care for.”
His speech was rather like that of an old-fashioned lawyer—prim, a little clipped, extraordinarily precise. Sir Bertram sighed.
“I wonder whether there is anything in the world,” he murmured, “which would ever induce Henry to diverge from a habit?”
“It is less prejudice than a partiality,” the latter pronounced. “Two glasses I enjoy. More, so far as I am concerned, bring me no pleasure. I agree with you, Bertram, that it is an excellent bin. I always enjoy this wine, and I have been happier than usual in drinking it this evening, on account of our pleasure in welcoming Gregory home again.”
“Tell me about our new tenants at the Great House,” Gregory enquired presently, addressing Borroughes.
“Very desirable—very desirable indeed,” the latter replied, delighted at the chance of entering into the conversation. “Mr. Endacott, curiously enough——”
“Endacott!” Gregory interrupted. “Did you say Endacott?”
Gregory, whose first enquiry had been a casual one, had set down the glass which he had been in the act of raising to his lips and was staring at Borroughes incredulously; staring at him and yet through him, convinced in his heart, suddenly realising what had happened.