Suddenly, through the darkness of my doubts, shot a lightning flash: the thought of Jim Courtenaye.
Superficially judging, Sir James Courtenaye, wild man of the West, but lately transplanted, appeared the last person to assist in working out a psychic problem. All the same a great longing to prop myself against him (figuratively!) overwhelmed me; and for fear the impulse might pass, I wired at once:
Please come if you can. Wish to consult you.
Elizabeth Di Miramare.
Jim was, as usual, hovering between Courtenaye Coombe and Courtenaye Abbey. There were hours between us, even by telegraph, and the best I expected was an answer in the afternoon to my morning's message. But at six o'clock his name was announced, and he walked into the drawing room of my flat as large as life, or a size or two larger.
"Good gracious!" I gasped. "You've come?"
"You're not surprised, are you?" he retorted.
"Why, yes," I said. "I didn't suppose——"
"Then you're not so brainy as I thought you were," said he. "Also you didn't look at time-tables. What awful catastrophe has happened to you, Elizabeth, to make you want to see me?"
I couldn't help laughing, although I didn't feel in the least like laughter; and besides, he had no right to call me Elizabeth.
"Nothing has happened to me," I explained. "It's to somebody else——"