eyes. And then, knowing the two men were trying to corner him, he said coolly:
"Why, yes. I care supremely."
"About what?" Jack's question was soft as a drop of water falling into water, and Richard sat struggling with himself.
"That," he answered, "you either know or don't know. And if you don't know, it would only be words my trying to tell."
There was a silence of check-mate.
"I'm afraid, for myself, I don't know," said Jack.
But Somers did not answer, and the talk, rather lamely, was turned off to other things.
The two men went back to Murdoch Street rather silent, thinking their own thoughts. Jack only blurted once:
"What do you make of Jaz, then?"
"I like him. He lives by himself and keeps himself pretty dark—which is his nature."
"He's a cleverer man than you'd take him for—figures things out in a way that surprises me. And he's better than a detective for getting to know things. He's got one or two Cornish pals down town, you see—and they tip one another the wink. They're like the Irish in many ways. And they're not uncommonly unlike a Chink. I always feel as if Jaz had got a bit of Chinese blood in him. That's what makes the women like him, I suppose."
"But do the women like him?"
"Rose does. I believe he'd make any woman like him, if he laid himself out to do it. Got that quiet way with him, you know, and a sly sort of touch-the-harp-gently, that's what they like on the quiet. But he's the sort of chap I don't exactly fancy mixing my broth with, and drinking of the same can with."
Somers laughed at the avowal of antipathy between the two men.
They were not home till two o'clock. Somers found Harriet looking rather plaintive.
"You've been a long time," she said. "What did you do?"
"Just talked."
"What about?"
"Politics."
