“I am afraid I am.”
Mr. Fentolin busied himself with the handle of his chair.
“Tell me,” he insisted, “is there any other person save yourself to whom you have given this mysterious promise?”
“No one,” Hamel replied promptly.
“I am a person very sensitive to atmosphere,” Mr. Fentolin continued slowly. “Since the unfortunate visit of this man Dunster, I seem to have been conscious of a certain suspicion, a little cloud of suspicion under which I seem to live and move, even among the members of my own household. My sister-in-law is nervous and hysterical; Gerald has been sullen and disobedient; Esther has avoided me. And now—well, I find even your attitude a little difficult to understand. What does it mean, Mr. Hamel?”
Hamel shook his head.
“I am not in the confidence of the different members of your family,” he answered. “So far as I, personally, am concerned—”
“It pleases me sometimes,” Mr. Fentolin interrupted, “to interfere to some extent in the affairs of the outside world. If I do so, that is my business. I do it for my own amusement. It is at no time a serious position which I take up. Have I by any chance, Mr. Hamel, become an object of suspicion to you?”
“There are matters in which you are concerned,” Hamel admitted, “which I do not understand, but I see no purpose in discussing them.”
Mr. Fentolin wheeled his chair round in a semicircle. He was now between the door and Hamel.