"My name is Rice, yours I know already," the other said. "By-the-bye, I noticed that the postmark of your parcel was Feldwick in the Hills, somewhere in Cumberland, I think. Have you seen the papers during the last few days?"
Douglas's left hand gripped the table, and the flush of colour, which the wine and excitement had brought into his cheeks, faded slowly away. The pleasant hum of voices, the keen joy of living, which, a moment before, had sent his blood flowing to a new music, left him. Nevertheless he controlled himself and answered steadily.
"I have had nothing else to do during the last few days but read the papers."
"You know about the murder, then?"
"Yes."
Mr. Rice was interested. He passed his cigarette case across the table and called for Kummel.
"I wonder," he said, "did you know the man Guest—Douglas Guest?"
Douglas shook his head.
"Very slightly," he said. "I lived some distance away, and they were not sociable people."
"Murders as a rule," Rice continued, leaning back in his chair, "do not interest me. This one did. Why? I don't know. I hate to have reasons for everything. But to me there were many interesting points about this one. First, now—"