“What news have you?” he asked, without pausing to explain. He was one of those men who are silenced by an unlimited capacity for prompt action.
“That,” she replied, handing him the note written by Jack Meredith to Marie at Msala.
Guy Oscard read it carefully.
“Dated seven weeks last Monday—nearly two months ago,” he muttered, half to himself.
He raised his head and looked out of the window. There were lines of anxiety round his eyes. Jocelyn never took her glance from his face.
“Nearly two months ago,” he repeated.
“But you will go?” she said—and something in her voice startled him.
“Of course I will go,” he replied. He looked down into her face with a vague question in his quiet eyes; and who knows what he saw there? Perhaps she was off her guard. Perhaps she read this man aright and did not care.
With a certain slow hesitation he laid his hand on her arm. There was something almost paternal in his manner which was in keeping with his stature.
“Moreover,” he went on, “I will get there in time. I have an immense respect for Meredith. If he said that he could hold out for four months, I should say that he could hold out for six. There is no one like Meredith, once he makes up his mind to take things seriously.”