Then a silence fell between the pair. Rolfe lit the cigar he had been slowly twisting between his fingers. Max looked furtively into his friend’s face, trying to read what secret thought lay behind. Charlie, however, preserved his usual easy, nonchalant air as he leaned back in his chair, his weed between his teeth and his hands clasped behind his head.
“Look here, Charlie,” Max exclaimed at last, in a tone of confidence. “I want to ask you something.”
The other started visibly, and his cheeks went just a trifle paler.
“Well, go on, old chap.” He laughed uneasily. “What is it?” And then he held his breath.
“It’s about old Statham.”
“About old Statham!” the other echoed, breathing freely again.
“Yes. Do you know that there are going about London a lot of queer stories regarding that house of his in Park Lane—I mean a lot more stories.”
“More stories!” laughed the private secretary. “Well, what are people saying now?”
“Oh, all sorts of weird and ridiculous thing.”
“What is one of them? I’m interested, for they never tell me anything.”