"You're not well!" said the editor, suddenly turning to Schuabe, who had grown very pale. His voice re- assured them.
It was without a trace of weakness.
The "Perfectly, thank you" was deliberate and calmas ever. Ommaney, however, noticed that, with a very steady hand, the host poured out nearly a tumbler of Burgundy and drank it in one draught.
Schuabe had been taking nothing stronger than water hitherto during the progress of the meal.
The man who had been waiting had just left the room for coffee. After Ommaney had spoken, there was a light, almost embarrassed, silence. A sudden interruption came from the door of the room.
It opened with a quick push and turn of the handle, quite unlike the deliberate movements of any one of the attendants.
Sir Robert Llwellyn strode into the room. It was obvious that he was labouring under some almost uncontrollable agitation. The great face, usually so jolly and fresh-coloured, was ghastly pale. There was a fixed stare of fright in the eyes. He had forgotten to remove his silk hat, which was grotesquely tilted on his head, showing the hair matted with perspiration.
Ommaney and Mrs. Armstrong sat perfectly still.
They were paralysed with wonder at the sudden apparition of this famous person, obviously in such urgent hurry and distress.
Then, with the natural instinct of well-bred people, their heads turned away, their eyes fell to their plates, and they began to converse in an undertone upon trivial matters.
Schuabe had risen with a quick, snake-like movement, utterly unlike his general deliberation. In a moment he had crossed the room and taken Llwellyn's arm in a
