It chanced that as he spoke these light and casual words Hamilton Beamish, glancing down, noted that his shoe-lace had come untied. Stooping to attend to this he missed seeing George's face. Nor—for he was a man who concentrated even on the lightest task the full attention of a great mind—did he hear the other's sudden, whistling gasp of astonishment and horror. A moment later, however, he observed out of the corner of his eye something moving: and, looking, perceived that George's legs were wobbling strangely.
Hamilton Beamish straightened himself. He was now in a position to see George steadily and see him whole: and the spectacle convinced him at once that something in the message he had just delivered must have got right in among his friend's ganglions. George Finch's agreeable features seemed to be picked out in a delicate Nile-green. His eyes were staring. His lower jaw had fallen. Nobody who had ever seen a motion-picture could have had the least doubt as to what he was registering. It was dismay.
"My dear George!" said Hamilton Beamish, concerned.
"Wok.... Wuk.... Wok...." George swallowed desperately. "Wok name did you say?"
"May Stubbs." Hamilton Beamish's expression grew graver, and he looked at his friend with sudden suspicion. "Tell me all, George. It is idle to pretend that the name is strange to you. Obviously it has awakened deep and unpleasant memories. I trust, George, that this is not some poor girl with whose happiness you have toyed in the past, some broken blossom that you have culled and left to perish by the wayside?"
George Finch was staring before him in a sort of stupor.
"All is over!" he said dully.
Hamilton Beamish softened.
"Confide in me. We are friends. I will not judge you harshly, George."
A sudden fury melted the ice of George's torpor.