“Yes, by all means, Hector.  But no whisky.  Give me a glass of my own wine; I see a bottle on the sideboard.”

He came round the table and sat down in the big chair.  “Pray seat yourself, Captain,” he said, waving his hand towards the stool which Beaumaroy had lately occupied.

The Captain obeyed the gesture, but his huge frame looked awkward on the low seat; he felt aware of it, then aware of the cap on his head; he snatched it off hastily, and twiddled it between his fingers.  Mr. Saffron, high up in the great chair, sitting erect, seemed now actually to dominate the scene—­Beaumaroy standing by, with an arm on the back of the chair, holding a tall glass full of the golden wine ready to Mr. Saffron’s command; the old man reached up his thin right hand, took it, and sipped with evident pleasure.

Alec Naylor was embarrassed; he sat in silence.  But Beaumaroy seemed quite at his ease.  He began with a statement which was, in its literal form, no falsehood; but that was about all that could be said for it on the score of veracity.  “Before you came in, sir, we were just speaking of uniforms.  Do you remember seeing our blue Air Force uniform when we were in town last week?  I remember that you expressed approval of it.”

In any case the topic was very successful.  Mr. Saffron embraced it with eagerness; with much animation he discussed the merits, whether practical or decorative, of various uniforms—­field-gray, khaki, horizon blue, Air Force blue, and a dozen others worn by various armies, corps, and services.  Alec was something of an enthusiast in this line too; he soon forgot his embarrassment, and joined in the conversation freely, though with a due respect to the obvious thoroughness of Mr. Saffron’s information.  Watching the pair with an amused smile, Beaumaroy contented himself with putting in, here and there, what may be called a conjunctive observation—­just enough to give the topic a new start.

After a quarter of an hour of this pleasant conversation, for such all three seemed to find it, Mr. Saffron finished his wine, handed the glass to Beaumaroy, and took a cordial leave of Alec Naylor.  “It’s time for me to be in bed, but don’t hurry away, Captain.  You won’t disturb me, I’m a good sleeper.  Good-bye.  I sha’n’t want you any more to-night, Hector.”

Beaumaroy handed him his candle again, and held the door open for him as he went out.

Alec Naylor clapped his cap back on his head.  “I’m off too,” he said abruptly.

“Well, you insisted on seeing him, and you’ve seen him.  What about it now?” asked Beaumaroy.

Alec eyed him with a puzzled baffled suspicion.  “You switched him on to that subject on purpose, and by means of something uncommon like a lie.”

“A little artifice!  I knew it would interest you, and it’s quite one of his hobbies.  I don’t know much about his past life, but I think he must have had something to do with military tailoring.  A designer at the War Office, perhaps.”  Beaumaroy gave a low laugh, rather mocking and malicious.  “Still, that doesn’t prove a man mad, does it?  Perhaps it ought to, but in general opinion it doesn’t, any more than reciting poetry in bed does.”