“You must be cold after your long drive. Will you not take a biscuit and a glass of wine?”
Westray motioned away the refreshment which a footman offered him.
“No, thank you,” he said; “I will not take anything.” It was impossible for him to eat or drink in this house, and yet again he softened his words by adding: “I had something to eat on the way.”
The architect’s refusal was not lost upon Lord Blandamer. He had known before he spoke that his offer would not be accepted.
“I am afraid it is useless to ask you to stop the night with us,” he said; and Westray had his rejoinder ready:
“No; I must leave Lytchett by the seven five train. I have ordered the fly to wait.”
He had named the last train available for London, and Lord Blandamer saw that his visitor had so arranged matters, that the interview could not be prolonged for more than an hour.
“Of course, you could catch the night-mail at Cullerne Road,” he said. “It is a very long drive, but I sometimes go that way to London myself.”
His words called suddenly to Westray’s recollection that night walk when the station lights of Cullerne Road were seen dimly through the fog, and the station-master’s story that Lord Blandamer had travelled by the mail on the night of poor Sharnall’s death. He said nothing, but felt his resolution strengthened.
“The gallery will be the most convenient place, perhaps, to unpack the picture,” Lord Blandamer said; and Westray at once assented, gathering from the other’s manner that this would be a spot where no interruption need be feared.