"Nin nissitotam," he agreed after a moment.

He led the way. Ned Trent followed through the narrow, uncarpeted hall
with the faded photograph of Westminster, down the crooked steep
stairs with the creaking degrees, and finally into the Council Room
once more, with its heavy rafters, its two fireplaces, its long table,
and its narrow windows.

"Beka--wait!" commanded Me-en-gan, and left him.

Ned Trent had supposed he was being conducted to the canoe which
should bear him on the first stage of his long journey, but now he
seemed condemned again to take up the wearing uncertainty of inaction.
The interval was not long, however. Almost immediately the other door
opened and the Factor entered.

His movements were abrupt and impatient, for with whatever grace such
a man yields to his better instincts the actual carrying out of their
conditions is a severe trial. For one thing it is a species of
emotional nakedness, invariably repugnant to the self-contained. Ned
Trent, observing this and misinterpreting its cause, hugged the little
revolver to his side with grim satisfaction. The interview was likely
to be stormy. If worst came to worst, he was at least assured of
reprisal before his own end.

The Factor walked directly to the head of the table and his customary
arm-chair, in which he disposed himself.

"Sit down," he commanded the younger man, indicating a chair at his
elbow.