“No!” he cried with passionate emphasis. “Cæsar, it’s not true. Tell them so.”
But Cæsar lay very still and looked past them all, staring blankly at the opposite wall. It seemed to Christopher the watching eyes of the others imprisoned him, held him in subjection. He got up.
“Let me out,” he muttered between his teeth, though none impeded him. He walked across the room to the fireplace and stood with his back to them, his hand mechanically altering the order of a procession of black elephants that stood there.
Aymer broke the silence, speaking with clear evenness.
“Shakleton, will you take Mr. Saunderson into the library. You will find my brother there, probably.”
“Certainly, Mr. Aston. Shall I leave these?” He indicate the papers on the table before him.
“Yes. Leave them where they are.”
Mr. Saunderson rose. “You must not be alarmed, my dear sir,” he said in a forced whisper, with a glance towards Christopher, “such news often takes a man off his feet for a while. He’ll soon appreciate it.”
“No doubt. Order anything you like, Shakleton.”
They were alone at last, yet Christopher did not move.