"Hullo!" he said, staring at him. "Anything wrong?"
Piers stared back with eyes of burning hostility. "I want a word with you," he announced curtly. "Will you come out, or shall I come in?"
"You'd better come in," said Tudor, suppressing a shiver, "unless I'm wanted up at the Abbey."
"You're not," said Piers.
He stepped into the passage, and impetuously stripped off his heavy coat. Tudor shut the door, and turned round. He surveyed his visitor's evening-dress with a touch of contempt. He himself was clad in an ancient smoking-jacket, much frayed at the cuffs; and his carpet-slippers were so trodden down at the heel that he could only just manage to shuffle along in them.
"Go into the consulting-room!" he said. "There's a light there."
Piers strode in, and waited for him. Seen by the light of the gas that burned there, his face was pale and set in lines of iron determination. His eyes shone out of it like the eyes of an infuriated wild beast.
"Do you know what I've come for?" he said, as Tudor shambled into the room.
Tudor looked him over briefly and comprehensively. "No, I don't," he said. "I hoped I'd seen the last of you."
His words were as brief as his look. It was obvious that he had no intention of wasting time in mere courtesy.