The house-master blinked, and glanced at both doors. One communicated with the passage, the other opened into the drawing-room, where his wife was playing one of Strauss's waltzes: Wein, Weib und Gesang. Whenever Jim heard this waltz he could conjure up a vision of that square, cosy, book-lined room, the big desk littered with papers, and behind it the burly figure of Billy, his eyes blinking interrogation. He let Mark take his own time.
"Something wrong in the house?" said Billy.
"Yes, sir."
Billy seized a quill pen, and began to bite it.
"Isn't this a serious step for you boys to take?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes, sir."
His gravity became portentous. Perhaps he feared an abominable revelation.
"You both understand," he coughed nervously, "that I may be compelled to act on what you choose to tell me; and if what you have to say implicates—er—others, if others may—er—have to—er—suffer, perhaps severely," he nodded so emphatically that his pince-nez fell off, "it may be well for you to—er—in fact—to," he blew his nose violently, "to bid me—Good night."
"Not yet," said Mark firmly.
Billy's hesitation vanished.