Barrington turned again to Witham and his face seemed to have grown a trifle stern.
“Who is this man?” he said.
Witham looked steadily in front of him, vacantly noticing the rows of faces turned towards him under the big lamps. “If he had waited a few minutes longer, you would have known,” he said. “He is Lance Courthorne!”
This time the murmurs implied incredulity, but the man who stood swaying a little with his hand on the chair, and a smile in his half-closed eyes, made an ironical inclination.
“It’s evident you don’t believe it, or wish to. Still, it’s true,” he said.
One of the men nearest him rose and quietly pushed him into the chair.
“Sit down in the meanwhile,” he said dryly. “By and by, Colonel Barrington will talk to you.”
Barrington thanked him with a gesture, and glanced at the rest. “One would have preferred to carry out this inquiry more privately,” he said, very slowly, but with hoarse distinctness. “Still, you have already heard so much.”
Dane nodded. “I fancy you are right, sir. Because we have known and respected the man who has, at least, done a good deal for us, it would be better that we should hear the rest.”
Barrington made a little gesture of agreement, and once more fixed his eyes on Witham. “Then will you tell us who you are?”