“Shall I pour you out a whisky, sir?” he inquired.
Trent started. He had been oblivious of the man's entrance.
“No. I'll do it myself—presently. Lock up and go to bed,” he answered brusquely.
But Judson still hesitated. There was an expression of affectionate solicitude on his usually wooden face.
“Better have one at once, sir,” he said persuasively. “And I think you'll find the chicken sandwiches very good, sir, if you'll excuse my mentioning it.”
For a moment a faint, kindly smile chased away the look of intense weariness in Garth's eyes.
“You transparent old fool, Judson!” he said indulgently. “You're like an old hen clucking round. Very well, make me a whisky, if you will, and give me one of those superlative sandwiches.”
Judson waited on him contentedly.
“Anything more to-night, sir? Shall I close the window?” with a gesture towards the wide-open window near which his master sat.
Garth shook his head, and, when at last the manservant had reluctantly taken his departure, he remained for a long time sitting very still, staring out across the moon-washed garden.