Someone beat a mad tattoo on the knocker, followed the sound down the passage and burst into the dusky room, calling on Ormond. Ormond looked up without interest.
“Yes,” he said. “What is it, Gordon?”
“Bert Kiliat says will yer come up wi’ him ter the penstock? Adams ’as bin ringin’ an’ ringin’ like he was dotty. It don’t take much ter put him off his onion. Will yer come—come now? The hills will be movin’ wi’ water gittin’ in behind them, an’ he’s scared fur the race. Are yer comin’?”
“No!” said Ormond. “You can tell Mr. Bert Kiliat that I have left the Lion.”
“Oh, go on!” Amazement shook the last shreds of respect from Gordon. “Yer can’t let the Lion go ter blazes. That rotter Kiliat’s no use. Come an’ tell us what ter do. Come on!”
Ormond battered a lump of coal down with his heel.
“I am not coming,” he said. “You can go back and tell them that I’ll see them in perdition first. Put it anyway you like. I don’t care.”
A silence that was rigid restraint fell between the two men when Gordon was gone. Father Denis only smoked in company. Ormond was not company to-night. He stood staring at the fire with his hands sunk deep in his pockets. Then he walked over to the
