"I am at your service, Lord Blenavon," I answered. "We will go into the hall and have a smoke," he suggested, leading the way. "To me it seems the only place in the house free from draughts."
I followed him to where, in a dark corner of the great dome-shaped hall, a wide cushioned lounge was set against the wall. He seated himself and motioned me to follow his example. For several moments he remained silent, twisting a cigarette with thin nervous fingers stained yellow with nicotine. Every now and then he glanced furtively around. I waited for him to speak. He was Lady Angela's brother, but I disliked and distrusted him.
He finally got his cigarette alight, and turned to me.
"Mr. Ducaine," he said, "I want you to apologize to my friend, the
Prince of Malors, for your behaviour this afternoon."
"Apologize to the Prince!" I exclaimed. "Why should I?"
"Because this is the only condition on which he will consent to remain here."
"I should have thought," I said, "that his immediate departure was inevitable. I detected him in behaviour—"
"That is just where you are wrong," Blenavon interrupted eagerly. "You were mistaken, entirely mistaken."
I laughed, a little impolitely, I am afraid, considering that this was the son of my employer.
"You know the circumstances?" I asked. He nodded.