“Here,” he went on, “are some papers of his—a diary and one or two letters. The rest of the things are at my hotel in town.”
Arthur took the packet, and, still in the same dreamy, unreal way, opened it. He turned to the last entry—dated six weeks back.
“Got out of bed at five, but nothing to be seen in the valley. I feel a bit chippy this morning. If nothing turns up to-day shall begin to feel uneasy. The men seem all right. They are plucky little fellows.”
There was a self-consciousness about Jem Agar's diary, a selection of the right word, which conveyed nothing to Arthur. But it fell into other hands later on, where it was understood better.
General Michael was watching the undergraduate with the same critical attention which he had brought to bear on the writer of the diary not two months before.
“Did you see much of your step-brother?” he asked abruptly, feeling his way towards his purpose.
Arthur looked up. He was getting accustomed to the loathing that he felt for this man, as one gets accustomed to an evil odour or a physical pain.
“I saw enough of him to be very fond of him,” he replied.
“And your mother—was she attached to him? Excuse my asking; I have a reason.”
The little pause was enough. Seymour Michael had expected as much.