"Of course I don't want to intrude," he said again. In the gloom I was
beginning to discern the workings of the tortured apoplectic face. "But,
I say, what's de Mersch's little game?"

"You'd better ask him," I answered. It was incredibly hateful, this
satyr's mask in the dim light.

"He's not in London," it answered, with a wink of the creased eyelids,
"but, I suppose, now, Fox and de Mersch haven't had a row, now, have
they?"

I did not answer. The thing was wearily hateful, and this was only the
beginning. Hundreds more would be asking the same question in a few
minutes.

The head wagged on the mountainous shoulders.

"Looks fishy," he said. I recognised that, to force words from me, he
was threatening a kind of blackmail. Another voice began to call from
the top of the stairs--

"I say, Granger! I say, Granger...."

I pushed the folding-doors apart and went slowly down the gloomy room. I
heard the doors swing again, and footsteps patter on the matting behind
me. I did not turn; the man came round me and looked at my face. It was
Polehampton. There were tears in his eyes.

"I say," he said, "I say, what does it mean; _what_ does it mean?" It
was very difficult for me to look at him. "I tell you...." he began