Then they both witnessed what they had never before seen in Jocelyn Thew. They saw his eyes blaze with a sudden concentrated fury. They saw his lips part and something that was almost a snarl transform and disfigure his mouth.
"Fight for England?" he exclaimed bitterly. "I would sooner cut off my right hand!"
His words left them at first speechless. He, too, after his little outburst seemed shaken, lacking in his usual sangfroid. It was Katharine who first recovered herself.
"But you are English?" she protested wonderingly.
"Am I?" he replied. "Will you forgive me if I beg you to change the subject?"
The subject was effectually changed for them by the advent of some of Richard Beverley's brothers in arms. It was some time before they passed on. Then a little note almost of tragedy concluded the feast. A tall and elderly man, gaunt, with sunken cheeks, silver-white hair, complexion curiously waxen, and big, dark eyes, left the table where he had been sitting with a few Americans and came over towards them. His advance was measured, almost abnormally slow. His manner would have been melodramatic but for its intense earnestness. He stood at their table for a few seconds before speaking, his eyes fixed upon Jocelyn Thew's in a curious, almost unnatural stare.
"You will forgive me," he said. "I must be speaking to Sir Denis Cathley?"
Neither of the two young people, who were filled with wonder at the strange appearance of the newcomer, noticed Jocelyn Thew's sudden grip of the tablecloth, the tightening of his frame, the ominous contraction of his eyebrows as for a moment he sat there speechless. Then he was himself again. He shook his head courteously.
"I am afraid," he replied, "that you must be making some mistake. My name is Jocelyn Thew."
"And mine," the stranger announced, "is Michael Dilwyn. Is that name known to you?"