“It’s a pity,” said Hoyting simply. “It makes it harder for you.”
“I’ve nothing to do with Paramore. If there’s one thing that interests me less than his disaster, it’s his rehabilitation.” I didn’t mean to be flippant, but Hoyting’s ominousness invited it.
“Oh, rehabilitation—no; I dare say, between us, we couldn’t manage that. I merely want to get the truth off my hands.”
Hoyting lighted another cigarette. The atmosphere of my room was already densely blue, and I opened the window. His hand shot up. “Shut that, please. I can’t be interrupted by all those savage noises. God! for a breath of sea air!”
I sat down and faced him. After all, the man has never lived who could stage-manage Hoyting.
“Did you ever meet the Australian?” he asked.
“Whitaker? No.”
“A pretty bad lot, I gather.”
“Do you mean that he lied?”
“Oh, no. From what Paramore said, I should think that was just the one thing he didn’t do.”