“Did you?”
“Yes.” It was a growl, half-defiant.
The silence in the room was unbroken. John began to arrange things for the night. The man at the desk watched him, resentful, suspicious.
When the room was in order, the young man came across. He placed his hand on Simeon’s shoulder. “All ready, sir.”
Simeon started a little. He motioned to the chair. “Sit down.”
The young man sat down, looking at him quietly.
Simeon was holding a paper, fingering it absently; he had retained it when John put away the others, covering it with his hand. He glanced down at it now once or twice, as if about to speak. But when he opened his lips, it was not about the paper.
“Blake does n’t know,” he said harshly. The young man’s face clouded. “Don’t you trust him, sir?”
Simeon spun the paper a little contemptuously on the desk. “I trust him—Yes—I trust Blake where he knows.”
“He knows about you, sir.” John, remembering the minute accounts he had given of Simeon’s condition, smiled a little as he said it.