Frederic Brood appeared in the door, stopping short just inside the heavy curtains. There was a momentary picture, such as a stage-director would have arranged. He was still wearing his silk hat and top-coat, and one glove had been halted in the process of removal. Young Brood stared at the group of three, a frank stare of amazement. A crooked smile came to his lips.
“Somewhat later than usual, I see,” he said, and the glove came off with a jerk. “What's the matter, Jones? Rebellion?”
“No, sir. It's the wireless, sir.”
“Wireless?”
“Briny deep,” said Mr Dawes, vaguely pointing.
“Oh,” said young Brood, crossing slowly to the table. He picked up the envelope and looked at the inscription. “Oh,” said he again in quite a different tone on seeing that it was addressed to him. “From father, I dare say,” he went on, a fine line appearing between his eyebrows.
The old men leaned forward, fixing their blear eyes upon the missive.
“Le's hear the worst, Freddy,” said Mr Riggs.
The young man ran his finger under the flap and deliberately drew out the message. There ensued another picture. As he read, his eyes widened and then contracted; his firm young jaw became set and rigid. Suddenly a short, bitter execration fell from his lips and the paper crumpled in his hand. Without another word he strode to the fireplace and tossed it upon the coals. It flared for a second and was wafted up the chimney, a charred, feathery thing.
Without deigning to notice the two old men who had sat up half the night to learn the contents of that wonderful thing from the sea, he whirled on his heel and left the room. One might have noticed that his lips were drawn in a mirthless, sardonic smile, and that his eyes were angry.