CHAPTER XXI 

A WOMAN'S CRY 

The three men were sitting at a small round dining-table, from which everything except the dessert had been removed. Duncombe filled his own glass and passed around a decanter of port. Pelham and Spencer both helped themselves almost mechanically. A cloud of restraint had hung over the little party. Duncombe raised his glass and half emptied its contents. Then he set it down and leaned back in his chair. 

"Well," he said, "I am ready for the inquisition. Go on, Andrew." 

Pelham fingered his own glass nervously. He seemed to find his task no easy one. 

"George," he said, "we are old friends. I want you to remember it. I want you also to remember that I am in a hideous state of worry and nerves"--he passed his hand over his forehead just above his eyes as though they were hurting him. "I am not behaving to you as a guest should to his host. I admit it freely. I have lost my temper more than once during the last twenty-four hours. I am sorry! Forgive me if you can, George!" 

"Willingly, Andrew," Duncombe answered. "I shall think no more about it." 

"At the same time," Pelham continued, "there is another point to be considered. Have you been quite fair to me, George? Remember that Phyllis Poynton is the one person whose existence reconciles me to life. You had never even heard her name before I sent for you. You went abroad, like the good fellow you are, to find her for me. You assure me that you have discovered--nothing. Let me put you upon your honor, George. Is this absolutely true?" 
Was George ready for the questioning?
Willingly, Andrew," Duncombe answered. "I shall think no more about it."