THE UNDERCURRENT
he had not heard correctly. Then he crossed over and faced the other man.
“You mean that?”
Hammersley put his hands in his trousers pockets.
“I fancy so.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What I’ve been told to do.”
“My orders supersede yours.”
“H-m. I’m not sure.”
“You can’t doubt my credentials.”
“Hardly that. Er—I think I know best, that’s all.”
Rizzio took a pace or two before the fireplace in front of him, his brows tangled, his fingers twitching behind his back. Then he stopped with the air of a man who has reached a decision.
“You understand what this refusal means?”
Hammersley shrugged.
“You realize that it makes you an object of suspicion?” asked the other.
“How? In doing what was expected of me?” said Hammersley easily.
“You are expected to give those papers to me.”
“I can’t.”
Rizzio’s fine face had gone a shade paler under the glossy black of his hair and his eyes gleamed dangerously under his shaggy brows. He measured the Honorable Cyril’s six feet two against his own and then turned away.
“I think I understand,” he said slowly. “Your action leaves me no other alternative.”
Hammersley, his hands still deep in his pockets, seemed to be thinking deeply.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Each man according to his lights. You have your orders. I have mine. They
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