An uncertain step was heard in the hall.
“Dat's him,” Jemima whispered hoarsely, behind her hand, “what'll I do? Doan' let him come in. I'll—”
St. George moved past her and pushed back the door.
Colonel Rutter stood outside.
The two men looked into each other's faces.
“I am in search, sir,” the colonel began, shading his eyes with his fingers, the brighter light of the room weakening his sight, “for a young sailor whom I am informed stopped here last night, and who... ST. GEORGE! What in the name of God are you doing in a place like this?”
“Come inside, Talbot,” Temple replied calmly, his eyes fixed on Rutter's drawn face and faltering gaze. “Aunt Jemima, hand Colonel Rutter a chair. You will excuse me if I sit down—I am just out of bed after a long illness, and am a little weak,” and he settled slowly into his seat. “My servant tells me that you are looking for a—”
St. George paused. Rutter was paying no more attention to what he said than if he had been in the next room. He was straining his eyes about the apartment; taking in the empty bed from which St. George had just arisen, the cheap chairs and small pine table and the kitchen plates and cup which still held the remains of St. George's breakfast. He waited until Jemima had backed out of the door, her scared face still a tangle of emotions—fear for her master's safety uppermost. His eyes again veered to St. George.
“What does it all mean, Temple?” he asked in a dazed way.
“I don't think that subject is under discussion, Talbot, and we will, therefore, pass it. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”