"Yes, I picked him up, you know. He was seeing a man in Leamington." Christopher carved ham carefully, and avoided Mr. Aston's eye, smiling to himself over his promise to Nevil not to betray him. "Nevil went to London. How did--" Mr. Aston stopped suddenly, "Christopher." "Yes, St. Michael." "You are not to lie to me whatever you do to others. Tell me what it means." Christopher regarded him doubtfully and then laughed outright. "Nevil did not like travelling alone. He thought he would get lost, so he asked me to look after him." "He went from London to Leamington to get a companion to travel home with?" "Exactly. Isn't it like him, St. Michael?" They again looked steadily at each other. "And being a bit weary of fighting for the right of individual existence," went on Christopher, "I agreed to bring him home. Mr. Masters has been most kind, but he does like his own way." "And what about you?" "Oh, I like mine, too. That's why it was so boring. How's Caesar?" "He will be pleased to see you. Where is Nevil?" "Gone to bed, I expect. How he hates travelling." "Yes." "He hates explanations still more, please St. Michael." "He should have prepared a more plausible story." "He thinks it quite credible. He expected me to believe--about the man in Leamington." "And did you?" "Well, do you?" They both laughed and Christopher looked at the clock. "Do you think Vespasian will let me take in Caesar's breakfast?" "He would be delighted, I'm sure. Caesar won't believe in Leamington either, Christopher." "But he will easily believe I was bored--which is true. I don't think he is as fond of Mr. Masters as he pretends to be." Whether Aymer believed or not, he asked no questions. He only remarked that Peter was far more likely to have been bored and Christopher had no eye to his own advantage. To which Christopher replied flippantly that it was a question of "vantage out," and he was not going to imperil his game with a rash service. After that he sat on the foot of the bed and talked frankly of his visit, and minute by minute the jealous fire in Aymer's heart died down to extinction. Presently, however, he said abruptly and rather reproachfully: "You never told me Mr. Masters had married." For a confused second the room and the occupants were lost in a fiery mist and only Christopher's voice lived in the chaos. Then Aymer found himself struggling to maintain hold of something in the mental turmoil, he did not know what at first: then that it was his own voice. It amazed him to hear it quite; steady and cool. "Why should she interest you? Did Peter tell you?" "No. Never mentioned it. One day I found Mrs. Eliot, the housekeeper, in a room, a sort of boudoir, playing about with holland covers, and I helped her. What was she like?" "Mrs. Eliot?" "No, you old stupid. Mrs. Peter Masters. I know you knew her, because there's a pen-and-ink sketch of you and Mr. Masters playing cards in the room." "Oh, is there." "Is she dead?"