Why it was so, I can't say, but McMurtrie's politeness always filled
me with a feeling of repulsion. There was something curiously sinister
about it.

He stepped forward into the room, followed by Savaroff, who closed the
door behind him. The latter then lounged across and sat down on the
window-sill, McMurtrie remaining standing by my bedside.

"You have read the _Mail_, I see," he said, picking up the paper. "I
hope you admired the size of the headlines."

"It's the type of compliment," I replied, "that I have had rather too
much of."

Savaroff broke out into a short gruff laugh. "Our friend," he said,
"is modest--so modest. He does not thirst for more fame. He would
retire into private life if they would let him."

He chuckled to himself, as though enjoying the subtlety of his own
humour. Unlike his daughter, he spoke English with a distinctly
foreign accent.

"Ah, yes," said Dr. McMurtrie amiably; "but then, Mr. Lyndon is one of
those people that we can't afford to spare. Talents such as his are
intended for use." He took off his glasses and began to polish them
thoughtfully. "One might almost say that he held them in trust--in
trust for Providence."

There was a short silence.