"Any one seen the Sporter this morning?" he inquired.
No one had seen it.
"The thing hasn't come," said some one.
"Good!" said Linton to himself.
At this point Stanning strolled into the room. "I'm a witness," he said, in answer to Linton's look of inquiry. "We're doing this thing in style. I depose that I saw the prisoner cutting off on the—whatever day it was, when he ought to have been saving our lives from the fury of the mob. Hadn't somebody better bring the prisoner into the dock?"
"I'll go," said Linton promptly. "I may be a little time, but don't get worried. I'll bring him all right."
He went upstairs to Sheen's study, feeling like an impresario about to produce a new play which is sure to create a sensation.
Sheen was in. There was a ridge of purple under his left eye, but he was otherwise intact.
"'Gratulate you, Sheen," said Linton.
For an instant Sheen hesitated. He had rehearsed this kind of scene in his mind, and sometimes he saw himself playing a genial, forgiving, let's-say-no-more-about-it-we-all-make-mistakes-but-in-future! role, sometimes being cold haughty, and distant, and repelling friendly advances with icy disdain. If anybody but Linton had been the first to congratulate him he might have decided on this second line of action. But he liked Linton, and wanted to be friendly with him.