Eglington’s eyes half closed, as though the light hurt them. “That sounds communistic, or is it pure Quakerism? I believe they used to call my father Friend Robert till he backslided. But you are not a Quaker, Soolsby, so why be too familiar? Or is it merely the way of the old family friend?”
“I knew your father before you were born, my lord—he troosted me then.”
“So long? And fifteen years ago—here?” He felt a menace, vague and penetrating. His eyes were hard and cruel.
“It wasn’t a question of troost then; ‘twas one of right or wrong—naught else.”
“Ah—and who was right, and what was wrong?” At that moment there came a tap at the door leading into the living part of the house, and the butler entered. “The doctor—he has used up all his oxygen, my lord. He begs to know if you can give him some for Mr. Claridge. Mr. Claridge is bad to-night.”
A sinister smile passed over Eglington’s face. “Who brings the message, Garry?”
“A servant—Miss Claridge’s, my lord.”
An ironical look came into Eglington’s eyes; then they softened a little. In a moment he placed a jar of oxygen in the butler’s hands.
“My compliments to Miss Claridge, and I am happy to find my laboratory of use at last to my neighbours,” he said, and the door closed upon the man.
Then he came back thoughtfully. Soolsby had not moved.