Mr. Sabin looked up.
“I am quite ready, Duson!” he said.
The servants in the hall stood respectfully aside to let him pass. On the way to the depot he saw nothing of those who saluted him. In the car he sat with folded arms in the most retired seat, looking steadfastly out of the window at the dying day. There were mountains away westwards, touched with golden light; sometimes for long minutes together the train was rushing through forests whose darkness was like that of a tunnel. Mr. Sabin seemed indifferent to these changes. The coming of night did not disturb him. His brain was at work, and the things which he saw were hidden from other men.
Duson, with a murmur of apology, broke in upon his meditations.
“You will pardon me, sir, but the second dinner is now being served. The restaurant car will be detached at the next stop.”
“What of it?” Mr. Sabin asked calmly.
“I have taken the liberty of ordering dinner for you, sir. It is thirty hours since you ate anything save biscuits.”
Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.
“You are quite right, Duson,” he said. “I will dine.”