Grey Mask

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Mr. Packer dangled the heavy bunch of keys for a moment before laying it on the table.

“Four years is a long time to be away,” he said.

His voice was so drily polite that Charles Moray could not fail to be aware that in the eyes of his solicitor four years absence, and a consequent neglect of all the business arising out of his father’s death and his own succession, was a dereliction. An only son who succeeded to a large estate had no business to walk the uttermost parts of the earth. He should step into his place as a citizen, stand for Parliament in the constituency represented by three generations of his family, and-settle down.

Charles picked up the bunch of keys, looked at them with an odd fleeting frown, and put them in his pocket.

“You won’t be going to the house to-night, I suppose,” said Mr. Packer.

“No. I’m staying at The Luxe. I just thought I’d look in and get the keys.”

“I asked because I believe-in fact I know-that the caretaker, Lattery, is out. He is always out on Thursday evening. I am aware of the fact, because it is his practice to call at this office for his wages; he comes very punctually at five o’clock. And I thought that if you had any intention of calling at the house, his absence might surprise you.”

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