“You had to know,” remarked Jim Bainbridge abruptly, feeling the urgency to say something to end the strained silence which had followed upon his disclosure, and busying himself with his pipe in order to avoid seeing the play of bitter emotion which disfigured the other man’s features. “Some one had to tell you. It complicates matters.”
“Yes.” Hallam stood up. “I wasn’t prepared for this,” he said. “I’ve got to think about it. I’ll see you again some other time. If you want me, I’m staying at the ‘Grand.’”
“Man, I’m sorry about this,” Bainbridge said, and held out his hand.
Hallam did not even see it. Like a man in a trance he turned and walked out of the place.
Book Four—Chapter Thirty Two.
Jim Bainbridge whistled. He filled his pipe and lighted it, and let it go out again. He repeated this performance until he had exhausted all the matches in his box; then he put the pipe down and sat back in his seat, with his thumbs in his braces, and cogitated.
It was a hell of a mess. No other phrase described the situation so aptly. It was a hell of a mess. He could not see how it was to be cleaned up exactly. Why the devil, instead of being taken prisoner, could not the fellow have stopped a bullet? That would have been a creditable finish. Well, he hadn’t. He was back again; and it looked as though there was going to be the hell of a fuss.
For several minutes Jim Bainbridge ceased from his meditations and coloured the air luridly with the variety and force of his expressions; then he cooled down again, and fell once more into thought. This thing had to be kept from his wife. The fewer the people in possession of the uncomfortable facts the better for the present. There was no need to confess to a cat in the bag until the brute mewed.