Chapter 21
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 hurt
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