"
Thorpe shook his head. "No, go along," he bade him.
"I've some odds and ends of things to do on the way."
"Then when shall I see you?"--began the other, and halted
suddenly with a new thought in his glance. "But what
are you doing Saturday?" he asked, in a brisker tone.
"It's a dies non here. Come down with me to-morrow evening,
to my place in Kent. We will shoot on Saturday,
and drive about on Sunday, if you like--and there we can
talk at our leisure. Yes, that is what you must do.
I have a gun for you. Shall we say, then--Charing Cross
at 9:55? Or better still, say 5:15, and we will dine
at home."
The elder man pondered his answer--frowning at the problem
before him with visible anxiety. "I'm afraid I'd better
not come--it's very good of you all the same."
"Nonsense," retorted the other. "My mother will be
very glad indeed to see you. There is no one else
there--unless, perhaps, my sister has some friend down.
We shall make a purely family party."
Thorpe hesitated for only a further second. "All right.
Charing Cross, 5:15," he said then, with the grave brevity
of one who announces a momentous decision.
He stood still, looking into the fire, for a few moments
after his companion had gone. Then, going to a closet
at the end of the room, he brought forth his coat and hat;
something prompted him to hold them up, and scrutinize
them under the bright light of the electric globe.
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