“I’m in no mood for it myself,” Bruce Robb said curtly, and dropped into a chair to the left of Dr. Stone. Landry sat on his right. The blind man stretched his arms lazily, as one does who takes his rest gratefully, and his hands fell on an arm of the chair of the man on either side.
“And so Allan rides at dawn,” he said casually.
Joe had almost ceased to breathe.
“At dawn,” Alec Landry repeated heartily. “By George, there’s a picture. Sir Galahad with the sunrise in his face. Get it, Doctor?”
“Plainly, Alec; very plainly. That’s what worries me.”
“What worries you?”
“The picture. It’s incomplete. First he rides out. So far, so good. But—is he supposed to come back?”
For the space of a heart-beat it was as though neither man had heard; then Bruce leaped to his feet.
“Dr. Stone, that’s a ghastly thing to say.”
“It’s a ghastly business,” the blind man said without emotion.