Then he sat down abruptly and heavily in the easy
chair, seemed almost to fall into it. He leant forward
with his brows on his hands and became motionless.

Presently he made a faint sound in his throat.
Isbister moved about the room with the nervousness
of an inexperienced host, making little remarks that
scarcely required answering. He crossed the room
to his portfolio, placed it on the table and noticed
the mantel clock.

"I don't know if you'd care to have supper with
me," he said with an unlighted cigarette in his hand --
his mind troubled with a design of the furtive administration
of chloral. "Only cold mutton, you know,
but passing sweet. Welsh. And a tart, I believe."
He repeated this after momentary silence.

The seated man made no answer. Isbister stopped,
match in hand, regarding him.

The stillness lengthened. The match went out, the
cigarette was put down unlit. The man was certainly
very still. Isbister took up the portfolio, opened it,
put it down, hesitated, seemed about to speak.
"Perhaps," he whispered doubtfully. Presently he
glanced at the door and back to the figure. Then he
stole on tiptoe out of the room, glancing at his
companion after each elaborate pace.