III
“Champagne is indicated,” said Antony; and that indication led us to the dining-room—a long, oak-panelled room at the back of the house. The curtains were not drawn across the two French windows, which gave out to a lawn sloping carelessly down to the water of Regent’s Park; and in the second in which Antony fumbled for the electric switch the dark shapes of the trees looked like the van of an impenetrable forest. But dark shapes of trees always look more or less like that.
“Didn’t you say something about an appointment?” Tarlyon asked vaguely, as Antony ravished the wire off a bottle.
“Did I?” He looked up at us from his business, very thoughtfully. “Oh, did I?”
“Pop!” said the champagne cork.
We drank, and Antony looked at his wrist-watch.
“Damn!” he said. “It’s stopped.”
“The time being just 11.25,” I helped him.
“Thanks,” said Antony, very mild, very thoughtful. “Excuse me a moment, will you?” And he strode across the room to the folding doors which led to Roger’s old library and card-room. He closed the door behind him, but it did not catch, swung open a few inches. No light filled the dark vertical space.
“Never known him so polite before,” I muttered.