It was the most shocking experience that Max had ever known, and the
blood seemed to freeze in his veins as he stood by the table watching
his friend, trying to conjure back a smile to his own face and look of
welcome into his own eyes.

He found his voice at last.

"Why, Horne," cried he, and he was angry with himself as he noted that
his voice was hoarse and tremulous, and that he could not manage to
bring out his natural tones, "what have you been doing with yourself?
I--I've been backward and forward here all day long, and now I've been
waiting for you ever so long!"

There was a pause. Dudley was still staring at him, but there was
gradually coming over his face a change which showed recognition,
followed by annoyance. He drew himself up, and, after a pause, asked,
stiffly:

"What did you want with me?"

He spoke more naturally than Max had managed to do, and as the latter
replied, he took out his pocket-handkerchief very calmly and began to
wipe the stain off his right hand.

Max shuddered.

"Why, is it such a very unusual thing for me to drop in upon you and to
want to see you?" he asked, with another attempt at his ordinary manner,
which failed almost as completely as the first had done.