“Now where did you hear that?”
Eric’s laugh seemed to ring shrilly, but O’Rane did not notice it.
“Tell me first if it’s true,” he said. “I’m the soul of discretion.”
He held out his hand, smiling and eager to congratulate. Eric hesitated and again laughed nervously.
“That ought to be an easy enough question for me to answer,” he said, “but, as a matter of fact, I can’t.”
The neglected hand reached out and felt for Eric’s arm.
“I nearly came round to see you,” said O’Rane gently, “but I thought you’d wonder what business it was of mine. You remember our talk on board the Lithuania... I know a good deal about you, and we’re very old friends... So I was glad, more than glad, when I heard you were actually engaged. Then I heard—”
His fingers slacked their grip on Eric’s arm; and his voice died away.
“That I wasn’t,” Eric suggested.
“Well, no. I heard—at least, I gathered that it wouldn’t be all plain sailing. I gathered it from Gaymer himself. D’you remember at Croxton that I said I thought I should have to take him in hand? He was drinking too much, he wanted pulling up. He’s been living in my pocket the last day or two. I can make something of him. But I’m afraid his interests cuts across yours.”