XVII. THE IDIOT

Evan MacIan was standing a few yards off looking at him in
absolute silence.

He had not the moral courage to ask MacIan if there had been
anything astounding in the manner of his coming there, nor did
MacIan seem to have any question to ask, or perhaps any need to
ask it. The two men came slowly towards each other, and found the
same expression on each other's faces. Then, for the first time
in all their acquaintance, they shook hands.

Almost as if this were a kind of unconscious signal, it brought
Dr. Quayle bounding out of a door and running across the lawn.

"Oh, there you are!" he exclaimed with a relieved giggle. "Will
you come inside, please? I want to speak to you both."

They followed him into his shiny wooden office where their
damning record was kept. Dr. Quayle sat down on a swivel chair
and swung round to face them. His carved smile had suddenly
disappeared.

"I will be plain with you gentlemen," he said, abruptly; "you
know quite well we do our best for everybody here. Your cases
have been under special consideration, and the Master himself has
decided that you ought to be treated specially and--er--under
somewhat simpler conditions."

"You mean treated worse, I suppose," said Turnbull, gruffly.