"Got to go out?" he repeated. "On a night like this? Why, my
dear fellow--"

He paused abruptly. He was a man of quick perceptions, and he
realised his host's embarrassment. Nevertheless, there was an
awkward pause in the conversation. Furley rose to his feet and
frowned. He fetched a jar of tobacco from a shelf and filled his
pouch deliberately:

"Sorry to seem mysterious, old chap," he said. "I've just a bit
of a job to do. It doesn't amount to anything, but--well, it's
the sort of affair we don't talk about much."

"Well, you're welcome to all the amusement you'll get out of it, a
night like this."

Furley laid down his pipe, ready-filled, and drank off his port.

"There isn't much amusement left in the world, is there, just
now?" he remarked gravely.

"Very little indeed. It's three years since I handled a shotgun
before to-night."

"You've really chucked the censoring?"

"Last week. I've had a solid year at it."

"Fed up?"