Читать книгу The Inquisitor. A Novel онлайн

41 страница из 52

Michael removed his hand and stepped back.

'I was always hoping to write and tell you that I was a millionaire,' he said. 'Thought my luck would change, but it didn't. Then in New York I was suddenly home-sick, felt I must see old England again. Before I died, you know.' He laughed.

'Died!' said Stephen. 'We are both far from that, I hope.'

'I only landed at Drymouth this morning and came straight here.'

'Well, sit down, sit down,' Stephen said, with a kind of warm gentleness. 'You'll stay and have something to eat with us? You can't refuse us that after all this time. Where are you stopping? "The Bull"?'

(This, thought Michael, with my bag staring at him!)

Michael squared his shoulders.

'I've come straight here,' he said. 'Can you give me a bed for the night?'

Stephen gave a quick apprehensive look round the room. He looked at the china ornaments, the cabinet, the table. It was as though he were guarding these things, protecting them from attack.

He stood by the fireside. He rubbed his nose.