Haywood, nonplussed, and trying to hide the books in an evening paper, fumbles out.  “Good evenin’, sir!” and departs.  Malise again takes up the sheets of Ms. and cons a sentence over to himself, gazing blankly at the stolid boy.

Malise.  “Man of the world—­good form your god!  Poor buttoned-up philosopher” [the Boy shifts his feet] “inbred to the point of cretinism, and founded to the bone on fear of ridicule [the Boy breathes heavily]—­you are the slave of facts!”

     [There is a knock on the door]

Malise.  Who is it?

     The door is pushed open, and Reginald Huntingdon stands there.

Huntingdon.  I apologize, sir; can I come in a minute?

     [Malise bows with ironical hostility]

Huntingdon.  I don’t know if you remember me—­Clare Dedmond’s brother.

Malise.  I remember you.

     [He motions to the stolid Boy to go outside again]

Huntingdon.  I’ve come to you, sir, as a gentleman——­

Malise.  Some mistake.  There is one, I believe, on the first floor.

Huntingdon.  It’s about my sister.

Malise.  D—­n you!  Don’t you know that I’ve been shadowed these last three months?  Ask your detectives for any information you want.

Huntingdon.  We know that you haven’t seen her, or even known where she is.

Malise.  Indeed!  You’ve found that out?  Brilliant!

Huntingdon.  We know it from my sister.

Malise.  Oh!  So you’ve tracked her down?

Huntingdon.  Mrs. Fullarton came across her yesterday in one of those big shops—­selling gloves.

Malise.  Mrs. Fullarton the lady with the husband.  Well! you’ve got her.  Clap her back into prison.

Huntingdon.  We have not got her.  She left at once, and we don’t know where she’s gone.

Malise.  Bravo!

Huntingdon. [Taking hold of his bit] Look here, Mr. Malise, in a way I share your feeling, but I’m fond of my sister, and it’s damnable to have to go back to India knowing she must be all adrift, without protection, going through God knows what!  Mrs. Fullarton says she’s looking awfully pale and down.

Malise. [Struggling between resentment and sympathy] Why do you come to me?

Huntingdon.  We thought——­

Malise.  Who?

Huntingdon.  My—­my father and myself.

Malise.  Go on.

Huntingdon.  We thought there was just a chance that, having lost that job, she might come to you again for advice.  If she does, it would be really generous of you if you’d put my father in touch with her.  He’s getting old, and he feels this very much. [He hands Malise a card] This is his address.