They all rose and made a move towards the door. “As I don’t care for café noir, and don’t understand pictures, you will perhaps excuse me,” said Kester, ignoring Lionel, and addressing himself to his uncle. “You had better go with us,” said Lionel, turning to his cousin. “You are surely not going to be the first to break up the party.” “I don’t want to break up the party. I will wait here till you come back,” answered Kester, doggedly. “You had better go with us,” said Lionel, meaningly, but speaking so that the others could not hear him. “Pray who made you dictator here?” said Kester haughtily. “I don’t choose to go with you. That is enough.” “You had better go with us,” said Lionel for the third time. “If you still decline, I can only assume that you are afraid to go.” “Afraid!” sneered Kester. “Of whom and what should I be afraid?” “That is best known to yourself.” “Anyhow, I’m neither afraid of you nor of anything that you can do.” “If you decline going to my rooms, I can only conclude that you are kept away by some abject fear.” “Lead on.—I’ll follow.—But mark my words, you and I will have this little matter out in the morning—alone.” “Willingly.” The rooms occupied by Lionel were in the opposite wing of the house to those occupied by Kester. They were, in fact, in the same wing as, and no great distance from, the room where Percy Osmond had been murdered: a good and sufficient reason why Kester should get as far away as possible. Lionel’s sitting-room was a good-sized apartment, but it was divided into two by large folding doors, now closed. A moderator lamp stood on the table, together with coffee, cognac, and cigars. “Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes,” said Lionel. “My picture requires a little preparation before I can show it to you.” So speaking he left the room. There was no servant. Each of the gentlemen, Kester excepted, helped himself to a cup of coffee.