“Quite a lot,” said Timothy. “I merely state that you will not see him to-night.”
Cartwright stroked his bristly chin undecidedly and then:
“Oh, well,” he said in a milder tone, “maybe you can fix things up for me in the morning.”
“Where are you sleeping to-night?” asked Timothy. “Have you any money?”
He had money, a little; and he had arranged to sleep at the house of a man he had known in better times. Timothy accompanied him through the window and into the street, and walked with him to the end of the road.
“If my gamble had come off, you’d have benefited, Anderson,” said the man unexpectedly, breaking in upon another topic which they were discussing.
They parted, and Timothy watched him out of sight, then turned on and walked in the opposite direction, to take up his self-imposed vigil.
CHAPTER XIII
THERE was something in the air that was electrical, and Mary Maxell felt it as she sat at supper with Sir John and his wife. Maxell was unusually silent and his wife amazingly so. She was nervous and almost jumped when a remark was addressed to her. The old truculence which distinguished her every word and action, her readiness to take offence, to see a slight in the most innocent remark, and her combativeness generally, had disappeared; she was almost meek when she replied to her husband’s questions.
“I just went round shopping and then decided to call on a girl I had known a long time ago. She lives in the country, and I felt so nervous and depressed this morning that I thought a ride in a taxi would do me good.”