The wheels he heard had stopped--perhaps it was Lady Cantourne. But
he did not think so. She drove behind a pair, and this was not a
pair. It was wonderful how well he could detect the difference,
considering the age of his ears.
A few minutes later the butler silently threw open the door, and
Jack stood in the threshold. Sir John Meredith's son had been given
back to him from the gates of death.
The son, like the father, was in immaculate evening dress. There
was a very subtle cynicism in the thought of turning aside on such a
return as this to dress--to tie a careful white tie and brush
imperceptibly ruffled hair.
There was a little pause, and the two tall men stood, half-bowing
with a marvellous similarity of attitude, gazing steadily into each
other's eyes. And one cannot help wondering whether it was a mere
accident that Jack Meredith stood motionless on the threshold until
his father said:
"Come in."
"Graves," he continued to the butler, with that pride of keeping up
before all the world which was his, "bring up coffee. You will take
coffee?" to his son while they shook hands.
"Thanks, yes."
The butler closed the door behind him. Sir John was holding on to
the back of his high chair in rather a constrained way--almost as if
he were suffering pain.
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