“I beg your pardon. When?”
The man lifted his hand impatiently. “Then. Before the last picture. I couldn’t be sure . . .”
“Oh, he said he was probably the only man in the country who knew the language.”
“Meanin’ himself? Raynor?”
“Yes.”
“Ah”—the man spoke with a certain jealous satisfaction—“so he thinks. But it ain’t so. It ain’t true.”
“Indeed?” Hillard was curt.
“Nah. I know it.”
Hillard looked at the interrupter who, quick as an animal to read a rebuff, had drawn away and was once more listening to the lecturer with a bitter intentness. Something made Hillard sorry he had been curt; so that when the audience broke up in unusual enthusiasm, and he found himself descending the stairs, shoulder to shoulder with the khaki coat, he followed the impulse of repentance and spoke.
“An uncommonly interesting talk, eh?”