"I can't wait," Rupert said, almost inarticulately.
He remained standing at the table trying to compose himself, but he was white to the lips.
Bertrand regarded him with quick concern. "Ah, but how I have alarmed you!" he said. "My shoes are of canvas, and they make no sound. Will you, then, sit down for a moment, while I pour out another glass of whisky?"
He drew forward a chair with much solicitude, and took up a fresh glass.
But Rupert swung away, turning his back upon him.
Prom the front of the house came the hoot of the waiting motor. Plainly his comrades were waxing impatient.
"But you will drink before you go?" urged the courteous Frenchman. "I am desolated to have deprived you—"
Rupert turned his face for an instant over his shoulder. It was no longer white, but crimson and convulsed with anger. His hands were clenched.
"Oh, go to the devil!" he cried violently, and with the words stamped furiously from the room.
Bertrand was left staring after him, petrified with amazement—too astounded to be angry.
At the end of a lengthy pause he turned and pocketed Mordaunt's keys, and rang the bell for Holmes to clear up the mess on the floor.