inevitable details occurred to
Westray's imagination: the crowded, curious court as he saw it in his
dream, with Lord Blandamer in the dock, and this last thought sickened
him. His own place would be in the witness-box. Incidents that he
wished to forget would be recalled, discussed, dwelt on; he would have
to search his memory for them, narrate them, swear to them. But this
was not all. He would have to give an account of this very afternoon's
work. It could not be hushed up. Every servant in the house would know
how he had come to Fording with a picture. He heard himself
cross-examined as to "this very remarkable interview." What account was
he to give of it? What a betrayal of confidence it would be to give
_any_ account. Yet he must, and his evidence would be given under the
eyes of Lord Blandamer in the dock. Lord Blandamer would be in the dock
watching him. It was unbearable, impossible; rather than this he would
fly himself, he would use the pistol that bulged his pocket against his
own life.

Lord Blandamer had noted Westray's nervous movements, his glances to
right and left, as though seeking some way of escape; he saw the
clenched hands, and the look of distress as they paced to and fro. He
knew that each pause before a picture was an attempt to shake him off,
but he would not be shaken off; Westray was feeling the grip, and must
not have a moment's breathing space. He could tell exactly how the
minutes were passing, he knew what to listen for, and could catch the
distant sound of the stable clock striking the quarters. They were back
at the end of the gallery. There was no time to pace it again; Westray
must go now if he was to catch his train.

They stopped opposite the old lord's portrait; the silence wrapped
Westray round, as the white fog had wrapped him round that night on his
way to Cullerne Road. He wanted to speak, but his brain was confused,
his throat was dry; he dreaded the sound of his own voice.

Lord Blandamer took out his watch.

"I have no wish to hurry you, Mr Westray," he said, "but your train
leaves Lytchett in little over an hour. It will take you nearly that
time to drive to the station. May I help you to repack this picture?"

His voice was clear, level, and courteous, as on the day when Westray
had first met him at Bellevue Lodge. The silence was broken, and
Westray found himself speaking quickly in answer:

"You invited me to stay here for the night. I have c