“Then,” continued Sir John, “where is your luggage?”
“I left it at the club.”
“Send along for it. Your room is—er, quite ready for you. I shall be glad if you will make use of it as long as you like. You will be free to come and go as if you were in your own house.”
Jack nodded with a strange, twisted little smile, as if he were suffering from cramp in the legs. It was cramp—at the heart.
“Thanks,” he said, “I should like nothing better. Shall I ring?”
“If you please.”
Jack rang, and they waited in the fading daylight without speaking. At times Sir John moved his limbs, his hand on the arm of the chair and his feet on the hearth-rug, with the jerky, half-restless energy of the aged which is not pleasant to see.
When the servant came, it was Jack who gave the orders, and the butler listened to them with a sort of enthusiasm. When he had closed the door behind him he pulled down his waistcoat with a jerk, and as he walked downstairs he muttered “Thank 'eaven!” twice, and wiped away a tear from his bibulous eye.
“What have you been doing with yourself since I saw you?” inquired Sir John conversationally when the door was closed.
“I have been out to India—merely for the voyage. I went with Oscard, who is out there still, after big-game.”