He recognized the signs of high-pressure, and the light in Wrayson's eyes puzzled him.
There were no other men dining, and in course of time the two were left alone.

The Colonel passed the cigars and touched the port wine decanter, which, however, he only offered in a half-hearted way.
"If you don't care about any more wine," he said, "we might have a smoke in the garden." Wrayson rose at once.
"I should like it," he said abruptly.

"I don't know how it is, but I seem half-stifled to-day." They passed out into the soft, cool night.

A nightingale was singing somewhere in the elm trees which bordered the garden.

The air was sweet with the perfume of early summer flowers.