“Haven't I?” he observed. “Well, what shall I say?”
“You might say something, considering that you and I haven't seen each other for so long.”
Mr. Hungerford rose. “I hope I haven't interfered,” he announced. “Didn't mean to intrude, I assure you. Beg pardon—er—Doane.”
John did not answer. Gertrude also rose.
“Good-night, Cousin Percy,” she said, with a gracious smile. “Thank you so much for the carriage and your escort.”
“Quite welcome. Pleasure was mine. Goodnight, Gertrude. Oh, by the way, I believe you and I are to go over that paper of your mother's tomorrow. She asked my advice and said you would assist, I think. I shall look forward to that assistance. Good-night, Doane. Glad to have met you, I'm sure.”
He strolled out. Upon reaching his room he discovered that his cigar case was empty. Hapgood not being on hand and, feeling the need of a bedtime smoke, he tiptoed down the stairs and through the back hall into the library. The room was dark, but sufficient light shone between the closed curtains of the drawing-room to enable him to locate Captain Dan's box. Silently and very slowly he refilled the case.
John Doane and Gertrude, alone at last, looked at each other. The former was very solemn. Gertrude, quite aware of the solemnity, but not aware of its principal cause—her father's impolitic disclosure of his apprehensions concerning herself—was nervous and a bit impatient.
“Well, John,” she asked, after a moment's wait, “aren't you going to say anything to me even now?”
John tried his best to smile. It was a poor attempt.