“There’s nothing to blow up about.  Hastings is competent to manage things—­”

“That conceited pup!”

“Hastings understands,” repeated Malcourt, in a listless voice.  “I’ve always counted on Alexander Hastings for any emergency.  He knows things, and he’s capable....  Only don’t be brusque.  He doesn’t understand you as I do ... and he’s fully your equal—­fully—­in every way—­and then some—­” The weariness in his tone was close to a sneer; he dropped his cigarette into the fire and began to roll another.

“Louis,” said Portlaw, frightened.

“Well?”

“What the devil is the meaning of all this?  You are coming back, aren’t you?”

Malcourt continued to roll his cigarette, but after a while he spoiled it and began to construct another.

“Are you, Louis?”

“What?”

“Coming back here—­soon?”

“If I—­if it’s the thing to do.  I don’t know yet.  You mustn’t press the matter now.”

“You think there’s a chance that you won’t come back at all!” exclaimed Portlaw, aghast.

Malcourt’s cigarette fell to pieces in his fingers.

“I’ll come if I can, Billy.  I tell you to let me alone....  I don’t know where I am coming out—­yet.”

“If it’s money you need, you know perfectly well—­”

But Malcourt shook his head.  From the moment of his entrance he had kept his face carefully averted from Hamil’s view; had neither looked at him nor spoken except in monosyllabic answer to a single question.

The rattle of the buckboard on the wet gravel drive brought Portlaw to his feet.  A servant appeared with Malcourt’s suit-case and overcoat.

“There’s a trunk to follow; Williams is to pack what I need....  Good-bye, Billy.  I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to.”

Portlaw took his offered hand as though dazed.

“You’ll come back, of course,” he said, “in a couple of days—­or a week if you like—­but you’ll be back, of course.  You know if there’s anything the matter with your salary just say so.  I always meant you should feel perfectly free to fix your salary to suit yourself.  Only be sure to come back in a week, won’t you?”

“Good-bye,” said Malcourt in a low voice.  “I’d like to talk to Hamil—­if he can give me a few moments.”

Bareheaded, Hamil stepped out into the clear, crisp, April sunshine where the buckboard stood on the gravel.

The strong outdoor light emphasized Malcourt’s excessive pallor, and the hand he offered Hamil was icy.  Then his nervous grasp relaxed; he drew on his dog-pelt driving gloves and buttoned the fur coat to the throat.