Sangster entered. The two men shook hands.

Sangster glanced at the breakfast-table.

"I'm rather an early visitor, eh?"

"No. Oh, no. Sit down. Have a cigarette?"

"No, thanks."

There was little silence. Jimmy eyed his friend with a sort of
suspicion. Sangster had heard something. Sangster probably knew all
there was to know. He shuffled his feet nervously.

Sangster was the sort of man at whom a woman like Cynthia Farrow would
never have given a second glance, if, indeed, she thought him worthy of
a first. He was short and squarely built; his hair was undeniably red
and ragged; his features were blunt, but he had a nice smile, and his
small, nondescript eyes were kind.

He sat down in the chair Jimmy had vacated and looked up at him
quizzically.

"Well," he said bluntly, "is it true?"

Jimmy flushed.

"True! what the----"

The other man stopped him with a gesture.