“The world is full of liars,” Dominey said equably. “You appear to have met with one, at least.”
“You have not even,” the doctor persisted, “the appearance of a man who has been used to excesses of any sort.”
“Good old stock, ours,” his visitor observed carelessly. “Plenty of two-bottle men behind my generation.”
“You have also gained courage since the days when you fled from England. You slept at the Hall last night?”
“Where else? I also, if you want to know, occupied my own bedchamber—with results,” Dominey added, throwing his head a little back, to display the scar on his throat, “altogether insignificant.”
“That's just your luck,” the doctor declared. “You've no right to have gone there without seeing me; no right, after all that has passed, to have even approached your wife.”
“You seem rather a martinet as regards my domestic affairs,” Dominey observed.
“That's because I know your history,” was the blunt reply.
Uninvited Dominey seated himself in an easy-chair.
“You were never my friend, Doctor,” he said. “Let me suggest that we conduct this conversation on a purely professional basis.”