"I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. “No, he wouldn’t come here of all places—just now. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it. What he wanted desperately was to be alone. My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that. “Would you stand it? I’m going to clear out. This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. ‘But I have been perfectly honest about that.
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