A grayness stirred in the shadow below the window. There was a whispered reply.
"Right!" answered Miller's voice laconically, and Landon poised the book in mid-air.
"Can you see it?" he asked, still below his breath. There was an affirmative grunt from below.
The book left Landon's hand and fell through the night. There was a faint shock as it reached the waiting grip in the darkness.
Landon quietly and methodically shut the window and turned to the desk. He leaned, pen in hand, over the note-paper.
There was the click of a latch-key. He swung round to confront his cousin.
For a second the two eyed each other in silence. Then Landon rose slowly to his feet.
"I came, forgetting that you were dining out," he said. "I came because I reasoned that by now ... you would be wanting ... to offer me an apology."
Aylmer looked at the desk. Landon followed the glance.
"I was going to explain—why?" he added, pointing at the unsullied note-paper.