Ackroyd’s other side, and Geoffrey Raymond next to him.

 

Dinner was not a cheerful affair. Ackroyd was visibly preoccupied. He looked

wretched, and ate next to nothing. Mrs. Ackroyd, Raymond, and I kept the

conversation going. Flora seemed affected by her uncle’s depression, and Blunt

relapsed into his usual taciturnity.

 

Immediately after dinner Ackroyd slipped his arm through mine and led me off to

his study.

 

“Once we’ve had coffee, we shan’t be disturbed again,” he explained. “I told

Raymond to see to it that we shouldn’t be interrupted.”

 

I studied him quietly without appearing to do so. He was clearly under the

influence of some strong excitement. For a minute or two he paced up and down

the room, then, as Parker entered with the coffee tray, he sank into an

arm-chair in front of the fire.

 

The study was a comfortable apartment. Book-shelves lined one wall of it. The

chairs were big and covered in dark blue leather. A large desk stood by the

window and was covered with papers neatly docketed and filed. On a round table

were various magazines and sporting papers.

 

“I’ve had a return of that pain after food lately,” remarked Ackroyd casually,