Black Brady, with a lively recollection of the few days in gaol which Trent had procured him in recompense for his poaching proclivities, was loud in his denunciation.
“Retreated, they calls it,” he observed, with fine scorn. “Runned away's the plain English of it.”
And with this pronouncement all the loafers round the hotel garage cordially agreed, and, subsequently, black looks and muttered comments followed Garth's appearance in the streets.
To all of which Garth opposed a stony indifference—since, after all, these lesser things were of infinitely small moment to a man whose whole life was lying in ruins about him.
“It was good of you to ask me over,” he told Herrick, as they shook hands. “Sure you're not afraid of contamination?”
“Quite sure,” replied Miles, smiling serenely. “Besides, I had a particular reason for wishing to see you.”
“What was that?”
Miles unlocked the drawer where he had laid aside the papers he had perused with so much interest two days ago, and, slipping them out of the elastic bands that held them, handed them to Trent.
“I'd like you to read those documents, if you will,” he said.
There was a short silence while Trent's eyes travelled swiftly down the closely written sheets. When he looked up from their perusal his expression was perfectly blank. Miles could glean nothing from it.