“Nearly four years.”
“And before that?”
Drysdale felt the baldness of the question, and knew that he was not proceeding as deftly as he should, that he was fencing clumsily; but opposed to this was a burning desire to know more about this man, to probe into his past. Not by the quiver of a lash did Tremaine indicate that he found the question either strange or unwelcome.
“Ah, I have been a wanderer,” he answered readily, and with apparent frankness. “I have lived in many countries and I have met many people—at Paris, at St. Petersburg, at London, even at Stamboul. And you, Mr. Drysdale?”
There was something subtly ironic in the tone—a shade of veiled contempt—that brought a flush to the other’s face.
“Yes, you have guessed it,” he said; “I’ve lived only in New York.”
The merest flicker of amusement flashed across Tremaine’s lips and they finished their cigarettes in silence. Tremaine’s suavity seemed to have come suddenly to an end. He no longer attempted to disregard the barrier that had arisen between them, or explain away that swift glance of the night before. They went down together to breakfast, presently; but only Delroy joined them there, and it was not an especially pleasant meal, despite the bright sun at the windows and Tremaine’s imperturbable good humour. As they arose from table, that gentleman announced his intention of going for a walk about the grounds, and Drysdale carried Delroy off to the library.
