As they went, Crozier swung aside from the front door towards the corner
of the house.
"The back way?" asked Burlingame with a sneer.
"The old familiar way to you," was the smarting reply. "In any case, you
are not welcome in Mrs. Tynan's part of the house. My room is my own,
however, and I should prefer you within four walls while doing business
with you."
Burlingame's face changed colour slightly, for the tone of Crozier's
voice, the grimness of his manner, suggested an abnormal condition.
Burlingame was not a brave man physically. He had never lived the
outdoor life, though he had lived so much among outdoor people.
He was that rare thing in a new land, a decadent, a connoisseur in vice,
a lover of opiates and of liquor. He was young enough yet not to be
incapacitated by it. His face and hands were white and a little flabby,
and he wore his hair rather long, which, it is said, accounts for the
weakness of some men, on the assumption that long hair wastes the
strength. But Burlingame quickly remembered the attitude of the lady--
Crozier's wife, he was certain--and of Crozier in the dining-room a few
moments before, and to his suspicious eyes it was not characteristic of
a happy family party. No doubt this grimness of Crozier was due to
domestic trouble and not wholly to his own presence.
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