"Bude," said Trevert, "when I'm a Field Marshal, I'll see you get the
O.B.E. for this!"

The butler smiled a nicely regulated three-by-one smile, a little
deprecatory as was his wont. Then, like a tank taking a corner, he
wheeled majestically and turned to cross the lounge. To reach the green
baize door leading to the servants' quarters he had to cross the outer
hall from which led corridors on the right and left. That on the right
led to the billiard-room; that on the left to the big drawing-room with
the library beyond.

As Bude reached the great screen of tooled Spanish leather which
separated a corner of the lounge from the outer hall, Robin Greve came
hastily through the glass door of the corridor leading from the
billiard-room. The butler with a pleasant smile drew back a little to
allow the young man to pass, thinking he was going into the lounge for
tea.

"Tea is ..." he began, but abruptly ended the sentence on catching sight
of the young man's face. For Robin, habitually so self-possessed, looked
positively haggard. His face was set and there was a weary look in his
eyes. The young man appeared so utterly different from his wonted self
that Bude fairly stared at him.

But Robin, without paying the least attention either to the butler or to
the sound of voices in the lounge, strode across the outer hall and
disappeared through the glass door of the corridor leading to the great
drawing-room and the library.