The man who strolled along in front of them halted, too, here and there. He did not appear to look round, but whenever acquaintances buttonholed the pair behind him it was noticeable that shop windows or Moorish curio sellers claimed his attention. He lingered, indeed, opposite a well-known book shop till his sudden resumption of his stroll brought him into collision with the others at the exact moment of their passing.
He started, muttered a perfunctory apology, and then made an exclamation.
"Jack!" he cried gladly, and held out his hand.
Aylmer met his cousin's glance, first with surprise, then with a sudden stiffening of his lips, finally with frowning. He gave a side glance at Despard.
The major's face was transfigured with wrath and loathing. He was looking at Landon as he might have looked at a poisonous reptile. He drew back a step of instinctive repulsion.
Landon gave a bitter little laugh. He still held out his hand defiantly.
"Isn't it fit to be shaken, Jack?" he asked. "Have I to thank the Galahad at your side for that?"
Despard's eyes grew grim and set. He turned to Aylmer and nodded coldly.
"See you later," he suggested, without another look in Landon's direction, and passed on his way with unhesitating strides. Venomously, malignantly, Landon watched him go.
"I don't wonder he won't face me!" he cried with well-simulated passion. "By God, I don't!"