He remembered only their long years of comradeship and the tragedy which
loomed over the life of his chosen friend. Once more his arm rested upon
his shoulder.
"I'm a selfish brute, Andrew!" he said. "Stay as long as you please, and
get this idea out of your brain. I'm trying to get Miss Fielding and her
father down here, and if I can manage it anyhow I'll leave you two
alone, and you shall talk as long as you like. Come, we'll have a drink
together now and a pipe afterwards."
He walked across to the sideboard, where the glasses and decanters were
arranged. Then for the first time he saw upon the tray awaiting him a
telegram. He gave a little exclamation as he tore it open.
Andrew looked up.
"What is it, George?" he asked. "A telegram?"
Duncombe stood with his eyes glued upon the oblong strip of paper. A
curious pallor had crept into his face from underneath the healthy tan
of his complexion. Andrew, sightless though he was, seemed to feel the
presence in the room of some exciting influence. He rose to his feet and
moved softly across to the sideboard.
"Is it a telegram, George?" he whispered hoarsely. "Read it to me.
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