So intent was everybody on that little scene that followed, in the spectacle of that flushed youth struggling against the steady pressure which the head waiter and his fellows asserted, that nobody saw the man who for a while stood in the doorway surveying the scene, before pushing aside the attendants he strode into the centre of the room.
Ray, looking round, was almost sobered by the sight of his father.
The rugged, grey-haired man, in his worn, tweed suit, made a striking contrast to that gaily-dressed throng. He stood, his hands behind him, his face white and set, surveying his son, and the boy’s eyes dropped before him.
“I want you, Ray,” he said simply.
The floor was deserted; the music ceased, as though the leader of the orchestra had been signalled that something was wrong.
“Come back with me to Horsham, boy.”
“I’m not going,” said Ray sullenly.
“He is not with you, Mr. Gordon?”
Dick shook his head, and at this intervention the fury of Ray Bennett flamed again.
“With him!” he said scornfully. “Would I be with a sneaking policeman?”