He refilled his glass, and having looked in his cigarette-case, began to ransack a small cupboard.
“Damn it all!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t got a cigarette in the place!”
“I don’t smoke them myself,” said Seton, “but I can offer you a cheroot.”
“Thanks. They are a trifle too strong. Hullo! here are some.”
From the back of a shelf he produced a small, plain brown packet, and took out of it a cigarette at which he stared oddly. Seton, smoking one of the inevitable cheroots, watched him, tapping his teeth with the rim of his eyeglass.
“Poor old Pyne!” muttered Gray, and, looking up, met the inquiring glance. “Pyne left these here only the other day,” he explained awkwardly. “I don’t know where he got them, but they are something very special. I suppose I might as well.”
He lighted one, and, uttering a weary sigh, threw himself into a deep leather-covered arm-chair. Almost immediately he was up again. The telephone bell had rung. His eyes alight with hope, he ran out, leaving the door open so that his conversation was again audible to the visitor.
“Yes, yes, speaking. What?” His tone changed “Oh, it’s you, Margaret. What?... Certainly, delighted. No, there’s nobody here but old Seton Pasha. What? You’ve heard the fellows talk about him who were out East.... Yes, that’s the chap.... Come right along.”
“You don’t propose to lionise me, I hope, Gray?” said Seton, as Gray returned to his seat.
The other laughed.