“Yes,” he said; “I'm old.”
The fan had dropped into Christian's lap; it rested on her white frock like a large crimson leaf; her eyes were fixed on it.
Mr. Treffry looked at her. “Have you heard from him?” he asked with sudden intuition.
“Last night, in that room, when you thought I was talking to Dominique—”
The pipe fell from his hand.
“What!” he stammered: “Back?”
Christian, without looking up, said:
“Yes, he's back; he wants me—I must go to him, Uncle.”
There was a long silence.
“You must go to him?” he repeated.