Then his body straightened up and he came to a stand-still.

He looked first into St.
George's face, then into Harry's, with a cold, rigid stare; his lips shut tight, his head thrown back, his whole frame stiff as an iron bar--and without a word of recognition of any kind, passed through the open door and into the wide hall.

He had cut both of them dead.
Harry gave a half-smothered cry of anguish and turned to follow his father into the club.
St.George, purple with rage, laid his hand on the boy's arm, so tight that the fingers sank into the flesh: there were steel clamps inside these delicate palms when occasion required.
"Keep still," he hissed--"not a word, no outburst.

Stay here until I come for you.

Stop, Rutter: stand where you are!" The two were abreast of each other now.