He found his voice at last.
"Why, Horne," cried he, and he was angry with himself as he noted that his voice was hoarse and tremulous, and that he could not manage to bring out his natural tones, "what have you been doing with yourself? I—I've been backward and forward here all day long, and now I've been waiting for you ever so long!"
There was a pause. Dudley was still staring at him, but there was gradually coming over his face a change which showed recognition, followed by annoyance. He drew himself up, and, after a pause, asked, stiffly:
"What did you want with me?"
He spoke more naturally than Max had managed to do, and as the latter replied, he took out his pocket-handkerchief very calmly and began to wipe the stain off his right hand.
Max shuddered.
"Why, is it such a very unusual thing for me to drop in upon you and to want to see you?" he asked, with another attempt at his ordinary manner, which failed almost as completely as the first had done.
There was another short pause. Dudley, without looking again at his friend, examined his hand, saw that it was now clean, and replaced the soiled handkerchief in his pocket. He seemed by this time to be thoroughly at his ease, but Max was not deceived.
"Of course not," said Dudley, quickly. "I only meant that—considering"—he paused, and seemed to be trying to recollect something—"considering what took place down at Datton yesterday and how anxious your father seemed to be rid of me—"
"But what has my father got to do with me, as far as you are concerned, Dudley, eh?" said Max.