Mr Drelincourt rose, gripping the edge of the table. “Really, my lord, if—if a man may not be private when he chooses!” He perceived the face of Sir Roland Pommeroy peering over the Viscount’s shoulder, and licked his lips. “Pray—pray what’s the meaning of this intrusion, sir?” he demanded weakly.
The Viscount advanced into the room, and sat down without ceremony on the corner of the table, one hand in his capacious coat-pocket. Behind him Sir Roland propped his shoulders against the wall, and began dispassionately to pick his teeth. Captain Heron ranged alongside the Viscount, ready to intervene at need.
Mr Drelincourt looked from one to the other with the deepest misgiving. “I can’t conceive what—what should bring you here, gentlemen!” he said.
The Viscount’s angelic blue eyes were fixed on his face.
“What took you out of town yesterday, Drelincourt?” he inquired.
“I—I—”
“I have it from your man below that you went away in a chaise and four, and came home late—too late to be disturbed now. Where did you go?”
“I fail—I fail entirely to see how my movements should concern you, my lord!”
Sir Roland withdrew the toothpick from his mouth. “Don’t want to tell us,” he remarked. “Black, very black!”
“Well, he’s going to tell us,” said the Viscount, and got up.