“He hinted to me once or twice,” went on Seymour Michael, “that things were not very harmonious at home.”
“I was not aware of it,” answered Arthur, whose innate gentlemanliness told him that this should be held sacred ground.
The General shifted his position.
“He was a first-rate soldier,” he said warmly.
It was obvious to both that they were not getting on. Something seemed to hold them both back, paralysing the savoir-faire which both had acquired in their intercourse with the world. Seymour Michael was puzzled. He was not afraid of this boy. He knew himself to be stronger—capable of over-mastering him entirely. But for the first time in his life he felt awkward and ill at ease.
Arthur Agar only wanted this man to go. He felt that he could forego the news which he must undoubtedly be in a position to give if only he could be rid of this hated presence. At moments the loathing came to him again, like a cold hand laid upon his heart.
“Were you with him,” inquired the undergraduate, “at the time of his—death?”
“No. I was at head-quarters, forty miles to the rear.”
There was a little pause, then suddenly Seymour Michael leant forward with his two hands on the table that stood between them.
“Mr. Agar,” he said, “are you able to keep a secret?”