There was a footfall on the heavily carpeted floor behind him, so soft that it could scarcely be said to have made a sound, but Livingstone caught it. He spoke without turning his head.
"James!"
"Yes, sir. Have you dined, sir?"
"Dined? No, of course not! Where was I to dine?"
"I thought perhaps you had dined at the club. I will have dinner directly, sir," said the butler quietly.
"Dine at the club! Why should I dine at the club? Haven't I my own house to dine in?" demanded Livingstone.
"Yes, sir. We had dinner ready, only—as you were so late we thought perhaps you were dining at the club. You had not said anything about dining out."
Livingstone glanced at the clock. It was half-past eight. He had had no idea it was so late. He had forgotten how late it was when he left his office, and the walk through the snow had been slow. He was hopelessly in the wrong.
Just then there was a scurry in the hall outside and the squeak of childish voices. James coughed and turned quickly towards the door.
Livingstone wanted an outlet.