"Are these mine?" asked Berkley.
"They are mine," corrected the other quietly, "but I choose to yield them to you."
"Thank you," said Berkley. There was a hint of ferocity in his voice. He took the letters, turned around to look for his hat, found it, and straightened up with a long, deep intake of breath.
"I think there is nothing more to be said between us, Colonel
Arran?"
"That lies with you."
Berkley passed a steady hand across his eyes. "Then, sir, there remain the ceremonies of my leave taking—" he stepped closer, level-eyed—"and my very bitter hatred."
There was a pause. Colonel Arran waited a moment, then struck the bell:
"Larraway, Mr. Berkley has decided to go."
"Yes, sir."
"You will accompany Mr. Berkley to the door."