Crispin turned upon him and shot out at him in his harsh rasping voice:
"What are you here for?"
They were standing one on either side of the table, and between them on the floor were the white scattered fragments of the torn "Orvieto."
"I told you," said Harkness. "I left my match-box. I won't keep you a moment if you'll allow me to take that candle"
"No, no," said the other impatiently, "I don't mean that. What do I care for your match-box? You are worrying my father. I must beg you, very seriously, never to come near him again."
"Indeed," said Harkness, laughing, "I don't understand you. How could I worry your father? I have never seen him in my life before this evening. He invited me out here for an hour's chat. I am going now. He is leaving for abroad to-morrow. I don't suppose that we shall ever meet again. Please allow me just to find my match-box and go."
But Crispin had apparently heard nothing. He stood, his hand tapping the table.
"I don't wish to appear rude, Mr.—Mr."
"Harkness is my name," Harkness said.
"I beg your pardon. I didn't catch it when my father introduced me this evening. I don't want to seem offensive in any way. I simply thought this a good opportunity for a few words that may help you to understand the situation.
