"The very day I saw you last. I came over to tell you something I'd heard the fellow say. I wanted to consult you of all men! And there were the two of you walking up and down your garden path."
"Was it the evening?"
"Yes, it was, and you walked up and down by the hour—like conspirators—like confederates!"
Lowndes had started up and was leaning across his desk. His hands gripped the edge of it. His face was ghastly.
"Spy!" he hissed. "You listened to what we were saying."
"I didn't," retorted Harry. "You knew one gentleman even then."
There were several sorts of folly in this speech: no sooner was it uttered than Harry saw one. Had he been less ready to deny the eavesdropping he might have learnt something now. By pretending to know much he might have learnt all. He had lost a chance.
And Gordon Lowndes—that arch-exponent of the game of bluff—was quick as lightning to appreciate his good fortune. The blood rushed back to his face, his hands came away from the mahogany (two little tell-tale dabs they left behind them), and he sank back into his luxurious chair—with a droop of the eyelids and ever so slight a shake of the head—an artist deploring the inartistic for art's sake while he welcomed it for his own.
Harry was furious at his false move, and at this frank though tacit recognition of the lost advantage.
"I wish I had listened!" he cried. "God knows what I should have heard, but something you dare not tell me, that I can see. There! I have been fool enough to answer your questions; now it's your turn to answer mine, and to tell me what there is between you and Scrafton."