Guy, who was looking worn, and rather pale, scowled at him. “No, it hasn't. You're not the only one who has a right to be here!”
“A little out of spirits?” murmured Randall. “Not quite our bright self today?”
“I don't see how anyone can be bright with a thing like this hanging over us all,” said Guy jerkily.
“I contrive to maintain my usual equanimity,” said Randall. “Have a cigarette: very soothing to the nerves.”
Guy took one mechanically, but stood with it between his fingers until Randall, his brows lifting, produced his lighter, and snapped it open. Guy gave a start. “Oh, thanks!” he said awkwardly, and bent to light the cigarette. As he straightened his back again, he said: “Have they finished downstairs?”
“Do you mean the police?” inquired Randall. “Should I otherwise be here?”
Guy glanced at him and away again. “They didn't find anything, did they? There wasn't anything to find.” He paused interrogatively, but as Randall made no remark said angrily: “You can answer, can't you?”
“I thought you had spared me the trouble,” said Randall blandly. “You said there was nothing to find. I expect you know.”
“Damn you, I haven't been tampering with uncle's papers!”
“Guy!” said his sister sharply. “Don't be such a fool! Can't you see he's only trying to get a rise out of you?”