vii

At last Edgar was alone. He had bidden good-bye to Olivia, and had received her invitation to come at any time, on any day, to visit the babies. He had said good-night to his mother and father, had received a light touch of farewell from his sister; and he was in his room, by the fire, with a pipe; and a tray bearing a decanter, a syphon, and a glass, together with a slice of Mrs. Mayne's latest private cake, lay on a small table behind him. He was bending over the fire in the room's light glow, and the books were shining and the shelves gleaming in the shadow, when, with a slight rustle, Claudia appeared in a long silk dressing-gown, her hair plaited for the night.

"My dear," she hurriedly said. "I knew you'd feel a bit sick. You don't believe it's true, do you?" The remark was not a question. It was a statement.

Edgar turned, making no pretence of misunderstanding her.

"No," he said. "It's not true. And of course it's the venom of a miserable woman. But it doesn't make me very cheerful, because ... well, at any rate, they're friends."

"I was afraid of that," breathed Claudia. "I thought she might be ... in love with him. I got an idea ... nothing at all ... just the sort of thing you imagine.... That's really why I came."

"Well, we'll see," answered Edgar, gravely, and without very much sanguine colour in his tone. "Good-night."

No caress passed. Claudia was a sister, and Edgar was a brother. They loved and trusted each other. But neither could have borne to see the other in acute distress; because both knew that the cause of such distress would necessarily be external to themselves, and therefore beyond reach of consolation. Claudia silently withdrew.

Nevertheless, her visit had done Edgar good. He sat on, smoking; and the fire grew less brilliant, dying on the surface and keeping its red heart, as it would continue to do long after the grate had seemed to a casual eye to be filled only with sullen ash. The room was a large one, and there were many books in bright, warm bindings. A desk stood near the window, in such a position that in daylight it would catch the sun upon its left side. The desk was orderly. It bore a stand lamp and a stationery cabinet, and various bundles of papers, tied or encircled with bands. To this desk Edgar presently went, standing above it lost in thought, the finger tips of one hand resting lightly upon its surface. And at length, when his pipe was burning harshly, he knocked out the remaining charred fragments of tobacco, and mixed himself a whisky-and-soda. In a few minutes he would be in bed, thinking still of Patricia....

And, as he thought that, it seemed to Edgar that he heard the ringing of the telephone bell. Strange! He opened the door of his room. There was no mistake. The bell was furiously ringing. It was echoing through the house. Edgar knew that everybody else was in bed, so he did not delay. He ran down to the clothes-cupboard, and heard the rattling of the bell still in the receiver as he put it to his ear.

"Hullo! Hullo!" he cried.

And from far off came a little breathless voice.

"Mr. Mayne's? Is that you? Edgar? This is Patricia. I'm at Monty's ... yes, Monty's. Look here, I haven't ... changed my mind. No. But I'm in trouble. Could you come and fetch me in your car? Could you? How splendid! Don't come to the house. No, don't come. I'll walk along to Marlborough Road station, and wait for you there. Yes. You're sure it's all right? Sure? Be quick. Quick...." Her voice died as she said the last words; showing that she was moving away from the telephone even as she spoke.

Strangely elated, his heart beating fast, Edgar stood for an instant ejaculating with surprise.

"Well!" he whispered to himself. "What on earth does that mean?" In his excitement Edgar gave a little laugh. "Extraordinary!"

No more time was wasted. It was precious. He ran quickly to the hall, back to get an overcoat, felt in its place for the garage key, remembered approximately the amount of petrol in the tank of his car, made sure that he had the key of the front door,—all as if in a single movement of thought and action; and then, with his coat still open, left the house at high speed. He was out again in the night, and in that chilly darkness, racing to the garage; and as he raced he laughed again, exhilarated by the sense of adventure, by the surprise of such a call, by quick speculation as to its cause. Above everything else, exhilarated by the knowledge that he was after all to see Patricia that night.