“Pray who made you dictator here?” said Kester haughtily. “I don’t choose to go with you. That is enough.”
“You had better go with us,” said Lionel for the third time. “If you still decline, I can only assume that you are afraid to go.”
“Afraid!” sneered Kester. “Of whom and what should I be afraid?”
“That is best known to yourself.”
“Anyhow, I’m neither afraid of you nor of anything that you can do.”
“If you decline going to my rooms, I can only conclude that you are kept away by some abject fear.”
“Lead on.—I’ll follow.—But mark my words, you and I will have this little matter out in the morning—alone.”
“Willingly.”
The rooms occupied by Lionel were in the opposite wing of the house to those occupied by Kester. They were, in fact, in the same wing as, and no great distance from, the room where Percy Osmond had been murdered: a good and sufficient reason why Kester should get as far away as possible.
Lionel’s sitting-room was a good-sized apartment, but it was divided into two by large folding doors, now closed. A moderator lamp stood on the table, together with coffee, cognac, and cigars.