“Yes, sir.”
“Well, bring up enough for two; some pickles, bread and butter, and a bit of cheese.” Then turning to Marsten he asked, “Will you drink wine or beer?”
“Really, Mr. Hope,” said the young man, moistening his lips and speaking with difficulty, “I’m not in the least hungry.”
Which was not true, for the very recital of the articles of food made him feel so faint that he had to lean against the bookcase for support.
“Bring a bottle of beer, please,” whispered the host, softly closing the door.
“Sit down, sit down,” he said to Marsten. “Not hungry? Of course you’re hungry after such a walk, no matter how hearty a breakfast you took before you left.”
While Marsten ate, Mr. Hope said nothing, but sat listening with apparently intense anxiety. Once he rose and cautiously turned the key in the door, breathing easier when this was done.
“Now,” said the old man, when Marsten had finished his meal, “you must go by rail to Wimbledon. Time is of importance—time is of importance. Here is a little money for expenses.”
“I cannot take money from you, Mr. Hope, but thank you all the same.”
“Nonsense, nonsense. You are acting for me, you know.”