“Why not go and get it?” Wendover asked, with a tinge of malice. He had not forgiven Ernest for his pusillanimous display on the night that Sylvia was shot.
Ernest looked round at him, wide-eyed in astonishment. He took off his glasses, polished them carefully, replaced them on his nose, and continued his staring examination of Wendover.
“Well, really,” he managed to say at last, “that’s a very strange suggestion, Wendover, very strange. Do you imagine that I’d go out in the dark, down to the Maze, and hunt about for my case? Why, it would be foolhardy, positively tempting Providence, to do that. This murderer fellow may be lurking outside the house-door, for all we can tell; and you calmly propose that I should walk straight out and put myself in his way! Well, really . . .”
He turned to the decanter at his side and poured out a fresh stiff glass.
Arthur Hawkhurst had listened to his uncle’s exhibition of caution with unconcealed contempt; and he now broke in with all the brutality of youth.
“Cold feet, eh?”
Ernest seemed to resent the imputation with a certain dull animosity.
“It seems to me only commonsense, Arthur. Why should I run any risks? I’ve been attacked once; and since they didn’t succeed in damaging me then, they’ll obviously be waiting for another chance. I think it would be a stupid move to put myself in the way, a very stupid move indeed. And I think most sensible people would agree with me. If you don’t, and if you want something to do, you might go down to the Maze and get me my cigar-case yourself. That would be better than sitting there, sneering at your elders.”
He assumed the air of one who had just administered a well-merited rebuke; but his dignity was slightly diminished by the necessity of putting his glasses straight. Arthur seemed to take his uncle’s protest as a taunt.
“Think I’m in a funk, too? I’ll go and get your case if you like.”