“Champagne is indicated,” said Antony; and that indication led us to the
dining-room--a long, oak-panelled room at the back of the house. The
curtains were not drawn across the two French windows, which gave out to
a lawn sloping carelessly down to the water of Regent’s Park; and in the
second in which Antony fumbled for the electric switch the dark shapes
of the trees looked like the van of an impenetrable forest. But dark
shapes of trees always look more or less like that.
“Didn’t you say something about an appointment?” Tarlyon asked vaguely,
as Antony ravished the wire off a bottle.
“Did I?” He looked up at us from his business, very thoughtfully. “Oh,
did I?”
“Pop!” said the champagne cork.
We drank, and Antony looked at his wrist-watch.
“Damn!” he said. “It’s stopped.”
“The time being just 11.25,” I helped him.
“Thanks,” said Antony, very mild, very thoughtful. “Excuse me a moment,
will you?” And he strode across the room to the folding doors which led
to Roger’s old library and card-room. He closed the door behind him, but
it did not catch, swung open a few inches. No light filled the dark
vertical space.
“Never known him so polite before,” I muttered.
“He’s absent-minded,” said Tarlyon, looking thoughtfully at the dark
space.
“What I want to know,” he whispered, “is what he’s doing in there in the
dark?”
“Keeping his appointment,” I suggested facetiously.
Tarlyon looked from the door to me.
“Poor devil!” he said softly. I thought he was pitying me for my wit, of
which I was never very proud.
He put down his empty glass, dug his hands into his pockets, and
lounged to the folding-doors. I never knew a man who could walk so
casually as Tarlyon; you never expected him to get anywhere, but he
always got there before you expected him to.
He kicked the slightly open door a little wider with the tip of his
shoe. I was just behind his shoulder.
“Antony!” he called softly.
From the light in which we stood the library was a pit of darkness.
Nothing moved in the pit. There was no sound.
“He’s not there,” I whispered; and I wondered why I whispered.
“Can you smell anything?” a hoarse voice suddenly asked from the
darkness.
Tarlyon lounged into the black room. But somehow, I did not feel called
upon to follow. I leant against the door.
Deeply set in the darkness I could at last make out the faintly white
patch which must be Antony’s shirt-front; and I wondered what tomfoolery
he was up to now, asking stupid questions in a startling voice out of a
poisonously dark room. I could smell nothing at all, and didn’t expect
to.
“What kind of a smell?” Tarlyon asked--in a reasonable tone! He stood
just within the door, his back to me.
“Can you smell _nothing_ at all?” the hoarse, subdued voice asked again.
“But, of course, it’s very faint now.”
Tarlyon put up his nose and sniffed. I sniffed. More than faint it was,
I thought.
“Been smoking?” Tarlyon asked, and he sniffed again.
“No,” came a whisper.
“Oh,” said Tarlyon. This was lunatic talk, and I was just about to say
so when Antony asked sharply:
“Why did you ask?”
“I thought I smelt smoke,” said Tarlyon. “Might be cigarette smoke.”
“It is,” I snapped, for I was smoking a Turkish cigarette just behind
his ear.
“You blasted fool!” said Antony--and with such contempt behind it that
from being bored I got annoyed. I stretched out my hand on the inside of
the library door and switched on the light.
“Turn that out, you fool!” came a frantic roar, and I had a vision of a
red giant murdering the distance between us. I’ve never thanked God for
anything so much as for having directed the body of George Tarlyon to be
standing between Red Antony and myself. I turned off the light quick
enough.
“Steady, Antony, steady!” said Tarlyon.
“Oh, go to hell!” growled Antony.
I thought to myself that we couldn’t be very far from it at the moment.
But the spell, or smell, it seemed, was broken. I was thankful for that,
anyway.
Back in the lighted dining-room Antony emptied his glass and grinned at
me rather shamefacedly.
“Sorry, old boy,” he said. I grinned back, as though I had enjoyed it.
Tarlyon asked suddenly:
“Have you got a spare bedroom for me, Antony?”
I stared, Antony stared. Then Antony smiled, and never before had I seen
him smile quite like that.
“Thank you, George,” he said, almost softly. “Now that’s really a
friendly action. But I’ll be all right--you needn’t worry.”
Then he addressed me as well; I had never seen Antony so reasonable.
“Come to dinner here to-morrow night,” he begged. “Both of you. I can
give you quite a good dinner.” He seemed very earnest, looking from one
to the other of us. I was going to say I was engaged, but Tarlyon
answered quickly:
“Right, Antony.” And because he looked at me in a certain way, I let it
be.