Rendell did not reply immediately. Wrayburn’s remark showed clearly that he was determined to define their relations from the outset. He would sever them—or dominate them. It was for Rendell to choose, once and finally. And the latter was too interested in this odd individual to dismiss him.
“You said I was a lonely person, I suppose, because Marsden told you so.”
“He did not tell me so. He told me that you had taken a room at No. 77 on impulse—although you do not know Trent. Well, that is the sort of thing a person does who thinks he is lonely. That is, of course, if he can afford it—which you can.”
“I see. You’re an expert in loneliness. Is that it?”
A flush passed over Wrayburn’s features. It came—and went—instantly. His voice was even more controlled and even more pedantic when he replied:
“I am an expert in detecting people who think they are lonely. One moment! Here are my eggs.”
A scrutiny of them, and a cross-examination of the waiter, followed. Then Wrayburn began to eat—in the manner of one performing an occult rite. Several minutes passed in silence. Eventually Rendell realised that Wrayburn had not the slightest intention of resuming conversation till he had finished.
He glanced at him again, though inwardly ashamed of the interest this odd person had created in him. Rendell had been to a lot of places and met numbers of people, but nowhere had he encountered anyone in the least like Wrayburn. Of that he was certain. Appearance, speech, personality—all were unique. Nevertheless, he disliked him, and felt uneasy in his presence.
To divert his thoughts, he looked out of the window. Through the rocking boughs of half-naked trees he caught a glimpse of the turbulent river. The moon was obscured, so all was darkness, except for a few street lights—and a lurid glow on the water which was the reflection of an advertisement in letters of crimson fire that adorned a building on the south side of the river. The wind still raged and—with increasing frequency—great rain-drops lashed the window-pane.
“I have finished eating.”
The statement made Rendell start like a guilty schoolboy. He endeavoured to retrieve his dignity by offering Wrayburn a cigarette.
It was refused with a lightning flick of the hand.
Rendell lit his cigarette then decided to assert himself. It was absurd to surrender to this stick of a man whom he could kill with one hand.
“How long have you known Trent?” he demanded.
“I have known him five years. Why?”
“Because I wanted to know,” Rendell replied brusquely. “Do you know any of his friends?”
“I have told you that I know Peter and Vera,” Wrayburn pointed out coldly. “I know others, of course. Why?”
“Well, damn it,” Rendell exploded, “you came here to talk about Trent, didn’t you?”
Wrayburn leaned forward, then, placing his elbow on the table and stabbing his left forefinger at Rendell, demanded:
“Do you really consider such questions and answers as talking about a man? Do you really? That’s interesting, extremely interesting.”
He regarded Rendell with genuine curiosity as if he were a species of half-wit hitherto unencountered.
“Do you mind,” he went on, “if I prove that such questions are meaningless? Do say, if you do mind. I shall not be offended.”
“Well, go on,” said Rendell gruffly.
“You asked how long I had known Trent.” Again the emphasis with withering. “And I replied: five years. If you’d asked Marsden the same question, and he had told you that he had known Trent for twenty years, would you have assumed that he knew him four times as well as I do? If not, I do not see the significance of the question.”
Rendell felt there was an answer, but, as he couldn’t discover it, he felt a trifle stupid.
“Do you think,” Wrayburn went on—stroking his little beard as if to convince himself of its existence—“as a favour to me, you could avoid cliché remarks? Do you think you could?” he repeated, in the tone of an icy governess trying to coax a dull child into intelligence.
Rendell blew out a cloud of tobacco smoke.
“Perhaps it would be safer if I listened to you,” he announced grimly. “That would settle it.”
“That’s an intelligent suggestion. But—just one minute!”
He extended his arm and, without turning his head, began to snap his fingers to attract the waiter’s attention. As the snaps sounded like revolver-shots, he was soon successful.
Wrayburn held out a neat wrist-watch for the waiter’s inspection, then tapped it with a finger-nail.
“It’s time for my coat and hat to be removed further from the fire. Not nearer to it—further from it. You understand that? And in five minutes—five minutes—I want some weak China tea.”
The waiter vanished.
“I want to know one thing,” Rendell demanded, with a rising note in his voice, “do you invariably address people as if they were idiots?”
“Habitually—until they’ve submitted definite evidence to the contrary.”
“I see. I only wanted to know.”
Wrayburn ignored this comment so completely that Rendell felt he had not made it.
But it was evident that Wrayburn was pondering a problem. His glance was fixed on Rendell, his thin lips were pursed, and he drummed lightly on the table with his fingers.
“Yes, I think so,” he said slowly. “I think this will convince you how stupid it is to ask a person how long he has known someone. Now, I have only just met you. An hour ago I did not know that you existed. Do you accept those statements as facts?”
“Certainly,” Rendell replied, “I’ve every reason to believe they are facts.”
“Excellent. I now propose to tell you what I make of you—having just met you. Then you can compare it with the knowledge of someone who has known you for years.”
Rendell put his cigarette out and lit another. He did not anticipate Wrayburn’s psychological diagnosis with equanimity.
“To begin with,” Wrayburn said quickly, as if to have done with a platitude, “you are a natural man who has reached a state of considerable muddle and——”
“But, look here——”
“One moment!” Wrayburn’s hand shot up in protest. “Do you propose to interrupt? Just say, if so—then I can adapt myself.”
“I confess I rather wanted your definition of a natural man.”
Wrayburn regarded him in a manner which soon convinced Rendell that he had sunk to the status of a quarter-wit, in his companion’s estimation.
“I see how it is,” the latter said to himself meditatively. “Only facts, I think—just simple obvious facts.” Then, abandoning soliloquy, he turned to Rendell and said clearly and rapidly:
“You are about forty. You know your world well. You always knew what you wanted, and had the requisite ability to get it. You’ve travelled a lot—obviously. You’ve been in difficult situations, have had to handle men—and you have been successful because your instinct is more developed than your intelligence. You might belong to one of several activities. You might be, for example, the South American manager of a big exporting firm. You might be a mining engineer. Or, just conceivably, an explorer.”
Wrayburn broke off. Again he extended his arm, and began to snap his fingers to summon the waiter.
“My weak China tea,” he demanded, when that individual appeared, without glancing at him.
“Things went on pretty well with you till a few years ago, I imagine,” Wrayburn continued in the maimer of a lecturer. “Then you probably fell in love and it wasn’t wholly successful.”