“My plans were changed.”
“Evidently. Do sit down.”
“I came back to find you. I've been waiting here for a chance to get through. We've worried greatly, of course. A rumor came from the Chinese that you were killed.”
“I nearly was,” said Doane quietly. A cloud had crossed his face as he listened. At every point, apparently, at each fresh contact with life, he was to be brought face to face with his predicament. It would be pitiless business, of course, all the way through, for the severest judge of all he had yet to face dwelt within his own breast; long after the world had forgotten, that judge would be pronouncing sentence upon him.
“You got through to Shanghai?” he asked abruptly.
Withery, touched by his appearance, a little disturbed by his nervously abrupt manner, inclined his head.
“Well, it's out, I suppose. What are they saying about me, Henry? Really, you'd better tell me. I've got to live through this thing, you know. I may as well have the truth at once.”
Withery lowered his eyes; fingered the chopsticks that lay by his plate.
“No,” he said slowly. “No, Grigg, it's not out.”
“But you know of it. Surely others do, then. And they'll talk. It's the worst way. It'll run wild. I'd rather face a church trial than that.” He was himself unaware that he had been constantly brooding upon this aspect of his trouble, yet the words came snapping out as if he had thought of nothing else.