John McGregor, ganglion of India’s crime statistics and acquainted with all evil at first hand, was shocked, to Mrs. Cornock-Campbell’s huge delight.
“Now, John! What have you to say to that?”
McGregor cracked a nut nervously and sipped at his Madeira.
“He could find a host of half-baked theorists to praise him for the blasphemy,” he said deliberately, “but the ultimate appalling circumstance of being damned is a high price for applause.”
Ommony laughed. “I’d rather be thought damned by a man I respect than be praised by damned fools,” he retorted. “We three will meet beyond the border, Mac. I’m looking forward to it. I can’t see anything unpleasant in death, except the morbid business of dying. ‘May there be no moaning at the bar when I put out to sea.’ It looks as if I might be the first of the three of us to take that trip.”
So, by a roundabout route, the conversation drifted to its goal. Over her shoulder, at the piano, in the rose and ivory music-room after dinner Mrs. Cornock-Campbell tossed the question that brought secrets to the surface.
“John says you are going to the Ahbor country.”
John McGregor’s eyes glowed with anticipation, but he crossed his legs and lit a cigarette, throwing himself back into the shadow of an antique chair to hide the smile.
“Going to try,” said Ommony. “My sister and Fred Terry disappeared up there twenty years ago. They left no trace.”
“Are you sure?”