Toward the end of the meal, however, Borkins came in. He glanced
casually over the group at the table, let his eyes rest for a moment upon
Cleek, and then--dropped an empty dish he was carrying. As he stooped to
recover it, all chance of seeing how the appearance of the man who had so
nearly met his death last night affected him, was gone. He came up again
still the same, quiet, dignified Borkins of yore. Not a gleam of anything
but the most obsequious interest in the task before him marred the
tranquillity of his features. If the man knew anything, then he was
a fine actor. But--did he? That was the question that interested Cleek
during the remainder of the meal.
After it was over, Mr. Narkom and Sir Nigel went off to the smoking room
for a quiet cigarette before setting to the real business of the day, and
Cleek was left to follow them at his leisure. Borkins was pottering about
the table as the two men left the breakfast room, and Cleek stood in the
doorway.
"Peaceful night, last night, eh, Borkins?" he said with a slight laugh.
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