Crowther took the hand. The hall was deserted. They stood together under a swinging lamp, and by its flaring light Crowther sought to read his companion's face.
For a moment or two Piers refused to meet his look, then with sudden stubbornness he raised his eyes and stared back. They shone as black and hard as ebony.
"Good-night!" he said again.
Crowther's level brows were slightly drawn. His hand, square and strong, closed upon Piers' and held it.
For a few seconds he did not speak; then: "I don't know that I feel like turning in yet either, sonny," he said deliberately.
Piers made a swift movement of impatience. His eyes seemed to grow brighter, more grimly hard.
"I'm afraid I must ask you to excuse me in any case," he said. "I'm going up to see if my grandfather has all he wants."
It was defiantly spoken. He turned with the words, almost wresting his hand free, and strode away towards the lift.
Reaching it, some sense of compunction seemed to touch him for he looked back over his shoulder with an abrupt gesture of farewell.
Crowther made no answering sign. He stood gravely watching. But, as the lift shot upwards, he turned aside and began squarely to ascend the stairs.