While speaking he went towards the head of the stairs, followed by Sir Seymour and Arabian. As Arabian passed the place where the whisky stood he picked up his glass and drunk it off at a gulp.
A minute later Sir Seymour and he were out in the night together.
CHAPTER XIII
“Which way do you go, please?” asked Arabian.
“I’ll go your way if you like. I live in St. James’s Palace. But I’m in no hurry. Do you live in my direction?”
“Oh, no. I live quite near in Chelsea.”
“I can walk to your door then if you don’t mind having my company,” said Sir Seymour.
“Thank you!”
And they walked on together in silence. Sir Seymour wondered what was passing in the mind of the man beside him. He felt sure that Arabian had been at first suspicious of him in the studio. Had he been able by his manner to lull that suspicion to rest? He was inclined to believe so. But it was impossible for him to be sure. After two or three minutes of silence he spoke again. But he made no allusion to the recent scene in the studio, or to Garstin’s parting words. His instinct counselled silence on that point. So he talked of London, the theatres, the affairs of the day, trying to seem natural, like a man of the world with a casual acquaintance. He noticed that Arabian’s answers and comments were brief. Sometimes when he did speak he spoke at random. It was obvious that he was preoccupied. He seemed to Sir Seymour to be brooding darkly over something. This state of things continued until they reached Rose Tree Gardens.