The landlady turned the knob and released the door. Nesbit came in, mumbling embarrassed thanks. The woman drew the door shut behind her.
One last flicker of spirit made Colby stand up. In the shadow of the lamp shade, perhaps, his pallor did not show. He waited as if for the volley from a firing squad.
“Howdy, Mistuh Colby?” said Nesbit awkwardly. “Maybe ye remember a couple o’ weeks ago we were talkin’ about huntin’.”
Colby nodded. The movement was ghastly, the acquiescence of one who looked like a dead man.
“I—uh—I was thinkin’ of takin’ a day off tomorrow,” said Nesbit, “an’ I thought maybe ye’d like to go huntin’—”
Colby’s weary, wakeful brain told him pitilessly what Nesbit really meant.
“Maybe,” said Nesbit heavily, “ye could locate Mistuh Grahame. That’d be right nice.”
Colby’s face had been ghastly before. It became corpselike now. He moved stiffly to a chair and sat down. His muscles twitched uncontrollably as his knees gave way.
Nesbit moved embarrassedly, unlovely and ill at ease. He moved his hands awkwardly.
“Mighty nice place ye got heah, Mistuh Colby. It’s just to my taste. I—uh—I got a copy o’ that picture, too. It’s mighty pretty, ain’t it?”