“Too bad!”
“It breaks up the game.”
“Miss Herrow, you go after him — he’ll come then, all right.”
But Miss Herrow — a slender, graceful girl with fair, velvety skin and gray eyes shot with lights of green, merely continued toying with a pack of cards.
“We shall have to cut in,” said Mrs. Hartshorn, advancing to a table. “Tom, give Mr. Nelson your seat. Mr. Graves, you will have to be a fifth. Higgins, take away the extra table.”
And, after some confusion and chatter, they found their places and began the pleasant pastime of trying to win one another’s money.
In the meantime Edward Besant remained in his dark corner in the library. The only light in the room entered through the open door leading into the hall, and it barely permitted him to see the deep outline of a chair here and a table there.
Occasionally an exclamation of triumph or annoyance or a burst of laughter floated down the hall from the room in front.
Mr. Besant seemed not to hear. For thirty minutes he sat staring straight ahead at nothing, then he arose, walked noiselessly to the door and down the hall, appropriated the first hat in sight, and sought the night without.
An hour later he returned, went directly to the library, and switched on the electricity.
By its light could be seen an expression on his face that belied the hopelessness of his words to his hostess a short time before. It wore an air of determination and resolve — the look of a man who has sought a decision and found it.
“It’s the only thing to do,” he muttered aloud, crossing to the desk and searching for a pen. “I’m tired of this faithful Fido business. This will end it for good.”
He sat down and wrote four letters — one long, two medium, and one short. Then he rang for a servant.
“Higgins,” he said, “I’m leaving on the seven-ten in the morning. I don’t want to bother Mrs. Hartshorn about it; so will you see that the car is ready at six-fifty-five to take me to the village? And here are some letters. These three are to be posted; the other is for Miss Herrow. Please send it to her room.”
Higgins took the letters and something else with them.
“Thank you, sir. Sorry you’re going to leave. Mr. Besant. I’ll see that the car is ready. And your luggage, sir?”
“I have only a bag. I’ll attend to it myself. By the way, you’d better call me about a quarter past six. Good night.”
“Very well, sir. Good night, sir.”
When Higgins had gone Besant again passed noiselessly down the hall. At the door of the drawing room he halted a moment listening to the voices within. For a time nothing could be distinguished; then came:
“Two club.”
“Two heart.”
“Two royal.”
“Two no trump.”
And then, evidently from another table, a silvery girlish voice sounded suddenly:
“But Mr. Nelson! You had only led diamonds once, so how could I know?”
This was followed by a burst of laughter from many throats.
Besant sighed, turned to the stairs, and mounted to his own room. For a while he sat on the edge of a table, then rose and began to pace the floor.
But despite this his face still held its expression of determination and decision; and his lips were pressed together in a grim line as he undressed and prepared for bed. Fifteen minutes later he was sound asleep.
At exactly six-fifteen in the morning he was called by Higgins.
Again at six-twenty, and six-thirty, and this time he was informed in a respectful but firm voice that trains were stubborn things. Accordingly he leaped out of a bed, into a tub, and thence into his clothes.
Then he threw his things hurriedly but effectively into his bag and descended to the breakfast room. It was empty, except for a servant, who approached as the young man entered.
“Eggs, sir?”
“Yes. As usual,” replied Besant absently as he stood looking out of the window.
April sunshine was just beginning to chase away the long shadows and transform the drops of cool dew into glittering jewels, but the young man did not see. The expression of his face would seem to imply that he was filled with regret for his decision of the evening before.
He sighed deeply twice, passed his hand wearily across his forehead, took a cigarette from his case, and turned to the table for a match.
Then suddenly he started back and uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise, while the cigarette fell from his fingers to the floor.
A girl had entered the room, stopping three paces from the threshold — a slender, graceful girl with gray eyes shot with lights of green.
“Miss Herrow!” exclaimed Besant, finding his tongue.
“Good morning,” said the girl quite as though she were speaking to Higgins, advancing to the opposite side of the table.
But Besant was too agitated with surprise to notice her tone. Simple wonder and astonishment at her appearance shone in his eyes, to be followed soon by a sudden expression of embarrassment and hesitation.
“It is quite early this morning,” he stammered, then wanted to bite his tongue off.
Miss Herrow did not smile; instead, she approached a step, holding out something white in her hand.
“It is,” she agreed icily. “I got up,” she continued, “to return something to you which — that is — something sent to me by mistake.”
And she threw the something white on the table. Then she turned and started for the door — not too hastily.
“But Miss Herrow!” cried Besant. “What do you mean? What is it?”
She paused, turning her head and pointing to the table.
“It is there. You will understand when you read it.” Then she turned full around. “Mr. Besant, I want to say that I am painfully disappointed in you. After yesterday — after what you said yesterday — I thought—”
She stopped, caught her breath, and went on: “When I went to my room last night I found an envelope on the dressing table. It contained that! I have never been so — so insulted before, and I showed it to Dora — to Mrs. Hartshorn. I asked her to return it to you, but she said you deserved — that is — I should return it myself. I have done so.”
Besant was staring at her with an expression of the most profound amazement.
“Insult!” he exclaimed finally. “That is a hard term, Miss Herrow. Is it an insult for a man to tell a woman he loves her? Or is a farewell an insult?”
“That he loves her?” repeated the girl scornfully. “No. But that — read it and you will understand. It is — evidently — intended for some — some person.”
Besant stared at her for a moment, then turned to the table and picked up the sheet of paper. He read:
Baba, you were right. I cannot live without you.
“Good God!” cried the young man in a tone of utter consternation, and sank limply into a chair.
“One can’t be too careful with one’s correspondence,” observed Miss Herrow acidly. She seemed somehow unable to get to the door.
“This is horrible!” groaned poor Besant from the chair. But he must have been keeping an eye on the girl, for as she turned again to leave he sprang to his feet. And, as though by a superhuman effort, he appeared suddenly calm.
“Miss Herrow,” he said. Again she turned.
“I — you know — I’m dashed, of course. I would have given anything not to have this happen. I would like to cut off my hand for doing it. But I cannot agree that I have insulted you. Where is the insult?”
“Where?” exclaimed the girl in withering scorn. “But I am not surprised that you do not see it, Mr. Besant. After what you told me yesterday — and then this—”
“What did I tell you yesterday?”