A light was still burning in the living-room when Donald Lane, on his return, came in sight of the house again. His uncle, then, was still sitting up, waiting for him! His lips compressed a little. Of all men, his uncle was the one he did not want to talk to tonight, and now, with a prolonged absence to explain that, to say the least of it, was rather extraordinary, he had made matters worse. Well, he would have to see it through—make some casual excuse—and, for the rest, keep the conversation on the safe topic of business.
He stepped on to the verandah, and walked toward the living-room doors—but halted on the threshold, as a native servant came hurriedly forward and handed him an unaddressed, sealed envelope.
The blood suddenly began to pound fiercely in its course through Lane’s veins
