"Harry," said he—he never called Desmond Harry except when they were at home—"Harry, what's wrong?"
"Why, nothing—nothing, that is, which amounts to anything."
"Harry, you are the worst liar in England. Something is wrong. Can't you tell me? You must. I'm hanged if I leave you till you do tell me."
He looked steadily at Desmond. In his clear grey eyes were tiny, dancing flecks of golden brown, which Desmond had seen once or twice before,—which came whenever John was profoundly moved. The dancing flecks transformed themselves in Desmond's fancy into sprites, the airy creatures of John's will, imposing John's wishes and commands.
"Scaife said I might tell you, if I liked."
"Scaife?" John drew in his breath. "Then Scaife wanted you to tell me; I am sure of that." He felt his way by the dim light of smouldering suspicion. If Scaife wanted John to know anything, it was because such knowledge must prove pain, not pleasure. John did not say this. Then, very abruptly, Desmond continued. "You swear that what I'm about to tell you will be regarded as sacred?"
"It is a matter which concerns Scaife and me, not you. You won't interfere?"
"No."
"I'm going to London."