Charlie Terrard approached the enormous obstacle with a fevered determination; it rendered him quite unnaturally abrupt.
“As I told you, I’ve come from John K. It’s a big thing. Too big. No matter. It’s simple, anyhow. You heard me say that; too simple. But you know what he is?”
“Yes.” Nor did Trefusis move a finger as he said it.
“He wants writing, to-night, now. I’m dead sure of it, Trefusis. Don’t disbelieve me. You’ll see what hangs on it. If he doesn’t get your name to it to-night—there’s nothing doing in the morning.”
“What is it?” said the other in tones as fixed as his face.
Then Terrard delivered the mighty thing.
“Sit down,” said Trefusis immovably, in a tone and with a gesture which were an invitation, but with an indefinable air of command which sat him ill. Terrard pulled a chair to the table and sat there with his head in his hands. The Dark Spirit of B.A.R.’s sank into his arm-chair, sitting in profile to Terrard, his arms slightly moving, gazing through the wall before him as he had gazed when first he awaited Petre weeks before.
A twenty minutes passed. There was no sound except the tiny ticking of a traveling clock upon the bracket below the Degas. The light failed. It was almost dusk.
At last Trefusis rose. Terrard rose with him and Trefusis spoke, in the gloaming. “Very well,” he said.
His voice sounded a little weary. It was from the effort of such a survey of every peril, every trap, every consequence as not many men could have flashed through in such a space without a breakdown of attention. He had decided. Let ’em slump. He’d buy himself—and hold. Let ’em attack. He had it all now—his own thing—and no one could undo it.