"We will go up stairs and smoke," said Stephen Foster. "Come, Royle; my daughter would rather play the piano."
The library, whither Nevill accompanied his host, was on the second floor front. It was a cozy room, trimmed with old oak, with furniture to match, lined with books and furnished with rare engravings and Persian rugs. Stephen Foster lighted the incandescent gas-lamp on the big table, drew the window curtains together, and closed the door. Then he unlocked a cabinet and brought out a box of Havanas, a siphon, a couple of glasses, and a bottle of whisky and one of Maraschino.
"Sit down, and help yourself," he said. "Or is it too early for a stimulant?"
Nevill did not reply; he was listening to the low strains of music from the floor beneath, where Madge was at the piano, singing an old English ballad. He hesitated for a moment, and dropped into an easy chair. Stephen Foster drew his own chair closer and leaned forward.
"We are quite alone," he said, "and there is no danger of being overheard or disturbed. You intimated that you had something particular to say to me. What is it? Does it concern our little—"
"No; we discussed that after we left the train. It is quite a different matter."
Nevill's usual self-possession seemed to have deserted him, and as he went on with his revelation he spoke in jerky sentences, with some confusion and embarrassment.
"That's all there is about it," he wound up, aggressively.
"All?" cried Stephen Foster.
He got up and walked nervously to the window. Then he turned back and confronted Nevill; there was a look on his face that was not pleasant to see, as if he had aged suddenly.