“Are you ill, man?”
Still no answer, save a shake of that head, and the passing up of a hand, out of the light, to the ghostly forehead under the dishevelled hair. The scent of whisky was stronger now; and Keith thought:
'He really is drunk. Nice thing for the new butler to see! If he can't behave—'
The figure against the wall heaved a sigh—so truly from an overburdened heart that Keith was conscious with a certain dismay of not having yet fathomed the cause of this uncanny silence. He got up, and, back to the fire, said with a brutality born of nerves rather than design:
“What is it, man? Have you committed a murder, that you stand there dumb as a fish?”
For a second no answer at all, not even of breathing; then, just the whisper:
“Yes.”
The sense of unreality which so helps one at moments of disaster enabled Keith to say vigorously:
“By Jove! You have been drinking!”
But it passed at once into deadly apprehension.