Something in his manner struck me as being a trifle odd, but if Tommy noticed it he certainly didn't betray the fact.
"Well, you shall be," he answered cheerfully. "This is Mr. James
Nicholson."
Latimer finished lighting his cigar, blew out the match, and dropped it carefully over the side.
"Indeed," he said. "It only shows how extremely inaccurate one's reasoning powers can be."
There was a short but rather pregnant pause. Then Tommy leaned forward.
"What do you mean?" he asked, in that peculiarly gentle voice which he keeps for the most unhealthy occasions.
Latimer's face remained beautifully impassive. "I was under the mistaken impression," he answered slowly, "that I owed my life to Mr. Neil Lyndon."
For perhaps three seconds none of us spoke; then I broke the silence with a short laugh.
"We are up against it, Thomas," I observed.
Tommy looked backwards and forwards from one to the other of us.