The old man, contrary to his practice, was a little late for the midday meal, and he had a poor appetite for it. As he tried to eat the cold mutton and the potato William had baked for him, his thoughts seemed a long way from his plate. William himself, who was too full of trouble to give much attention to food, now saw that the old man's earlier ferocity, which had hurt him even more than it had puzzled him, had yielded to a depth of melancholy that was hardly less disturbing. But the master's manner, on his return from the visit to Mr. Thornton, was far more in accordance with his nature, at least as William understood that nature; indeed, his voice had recaptured the note of pathos which seemed natural to it whenever the Van Roon was mentioned.
"I ought to tell you, boy," he said, in a husky tone, towards the end of the meal, "that it looks as if there'll be the dickens to pay over this job. A French detective from Paris has been here, and he's coming again this afternoon to have a word with you."
"With me, sir?"
The old man, whose eyes were furtively devouring the face of William, was quick to observe its startled look. "Yes, boy, you're the one he wants to see. The Loov authorities have managed to get wind of this Van Roon of ours, and they say it's the feller they've been looking for since 1898."
