“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
“Was he?” asked Micky. “Tell me about it.”
Cloud took another cigarette and the match with which he lit it cast great shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. He rose and paced up and down the little room as if trying to find the right beginning. Outside, the night was opaquely dark and a strong breeze made it impossible for him to be overheard by any stray loiterer on the deck.
“Begin with me—and then how it happened, later,” he jerked out. “Cosmo Graeme, of Harrow and Oxford. My father is Lord Varricks—I ’m the fourth son—our place is down in Hampshire—Parsley Croft, they call it.” It seemed hard for him to force the words from his lips. “We ’re a hunting lot. Keep our own hounds. Always a crowd of people at the house. You know the kind of people—Mrs. Trevelyan used to be one of them. What they call the best people in England!” His lips curled.
“Well, this beast Roakby used to be one of them too. He was a friend of my father. There weeks at a time. Came when he pleased and had the run of the house. One of those133
