Jem Agar had altered since he saw him last in the little tent far up on the slopes of the Pamir. He was older and graver. There was also a wisdom in his eyes—that steadfast wise look that comes to eyes which have looked too often on death. Mark Ruthine he knew, and him he distrusted, with that quiet keenness of observation which was his.
“Now,” he said eagerly to Jem, “what I thought we might do was to have a little breakfast and catch the eleven o'clock train up to town. If Ruthine will join us, I for one shall be very pleased. He won't mind our talking shop.”
Mark Ruthine was attending to the luggage, which was being piled upon a cab.
“Have you not had breakfast?” asked Agar.
“Well, I have had a little, but I don't mind a second edition. That waiter chap at the hotel got me out of bed much too soon. However, it is worth getting up the night before to see you back, old chap.”
“Is there not an earlier train than the eleven o'clock?” asked Agar, looking at his watch. There was a singular constraint in his manner which Seymour Michael could not understand.
“Yes, there is one at nine forty-five.”
“Then let us go by that. We can get something at the station, if we want it.”
“Make it a bottle of champagne to celebrate the return of the explorer, and I am your man,” said Michael heartily.
“Make it anything you like,” answered Agar, in a gentler voice. He was beginning to come under the influence of Seymour Michael's sweet voice, and of that fascination which nearly all educated Jews unconsciously exercise.