He shrugged his shoulders.
"Or what?" said Aylmer, quietly.
"Or I shall know you've made up your mind not to be convinced."
And then a sudden taciturnity overtook him. He marched along at his cousin's side, his eyes bent upon the pavement, his brows contracted. He had the appearance of one who considers deeply. John Aylmer made no attempt to resume conversation. He concluded that Landon was either piecing together a story out of unpromising material which would leave considerable gaps to be filled or, which was more likely, evolving one out of his vivid imagination. In either case he was content to leave the issue to be ascertained in the privacy of his quarters.
They gained them uninterrupted. Aylmer made a sign towards a chair. Landon, after an expressive glance towards the Tantalus on the sideboard, sat down. Aylmer did not take the hint; he was in no mood to offer hospitality to this man, even to the inconsiderable extent of a whisky and soda.
He looked at Landon.
"Well?" he demanded curtly.
Landon gave another look towards the sideboard.
"I've hinted once," he said, with a laugh which he tried to make genial and offhand. "This time I'll ask bluntly for it."
"For what?"