“Mr. Willoughby, I believe,” he said, cheerily. “You must allow me to introduce myself since Higginbotham isn’t here to do it for me. My name is Meldon, the Rev. J. J. Meldon, B.A., of T.C.D.”
The Chief Secretary intended to rise with dignity and walk out of the hut. He failed because no one can rise otherwise than awkwardly out of the depths of a hammock-chair.
“Don’t stir,” said Meldon, watching his struggles. “Please don’t stir. I shouldn’t dream of taking your chair. I’ll sit on the corner of the table. I’ll be quite comfortable, I assure you. How do you like Inishgowlan, now you are here? It’s a nice little island, isn’t it?”
Mr. Willoughby succeeded in getting out of his chair. He walked across the hut, turned his back on Meldon, and stared out of the window.
“I came up here to have a chat with you,” said Meldon. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind turning round; I always find it more convenient to talk to a man who isn’t looking the other way. I don’t make a point of it, of course. If you’ve got into the habit of keeping your back turned to people, I don’t want you to alter it on my account.”
Mr. Willoughby turned round. He seemed to be on the point of making an angry remark. Meldon faced him with a bland smile. The look of irritation faded in Mr. Willoughby’s face. He appeared puzzled.
“It’s about Higginbotham’s bed,” said Meldon, “that I want to speak. It’s an excellent bed, I believe, though I never slept in it myself. But,——”
“If there’s anything the matter with the bed,” said Mr. Willoughby severely, “Mr. Higginbotham should himself represent the facts to the proper authorities.”
“You quite misunderstand me. And, in any case, Higginbotham can’t move in the matter because he doesn’t, at present, know that there’s anything wrong about the bed. By the time he finds out, it will be too late to do anything. I simply want to give you a word of advice. Don’t sleep in Higginbotham’s bed to-night.”
“I haven’t the slightest intention of sleeping in it.”