I think I was never so sorry for any man in my life!
"I have been too happy!" he said, when he had come to meet us in the hall—walking firmly in these days—and had led us into his study or "den." "She's such a friend of yours, Elizabeth. Has she consciously or unconsciously given you some clue?"
"No real clue," I told him, regretfully; "though I may think of a forgotten hint when we've talked things over. But you must tell us exactly what has happened."
Poor Murray held himself in iron control. Perhaps he even "hoped for the best," as Jim urged him to do. But I saw through the false calmness into a despairing soul. Already the newly lit flame of restored vitality burned low. He looked years older, and I would have given much if Sir Beverley or even the understudy had been in the house. Doctor Thomas had gone a week ago, however, Sir Beverley judging that Murray could now get on by himself. Alas, he had not guessed how literally the man would be left alone to do this!
The morning of yesterday had passed, Murray said, in an ordinary way. Then, by the second post, which arrived after luncheon, a registered letter had come for Rosemary. Such letters appeared now and then, at regular intervals, and Rosemary had explained that they were sent on by her bank in London, and contained enclosures from America. Rosemary never talked to him of these letters, or of America at all, having told him once, before their marriage, that her one link with that country now was her sister. Whether or not she was fond of the sister he could not say; but she always seemed restless when one of these registered letters arrived.
Yesterday was no exception to the rule. When the letter was handed to Rosemary she and her husband were having coffee and cigarettes in her boudoir. She flushed at sight of the envelope, but tossed it aside unopened, as though she took no interest in its contents, and continued the conversation as if it had not been broken off. Murray felt uneasily conscious, however, that she was thinking of the letter, and made an excuse to leave her alone so that she might read it in peace. Depressed and anxious, he strolled out on the lawn with the dogs. One of them made a rush at the open bay window into the boudoir; and, snatching the animal back by its collar, Murray caught a glimpse of Rosemary burning something in the grate.
Soon after she had joined him out of doors, and had made an effort to be gay. He had thought, however, that she was absent-minded, and he longed to ask what the trouble was; but America as a subject of conversation was taboo.
For the rest of the day they were mostly together, and never had Rosemary been so loving or so sweet.
At night Ralston had remained with his wife in her room till twelve. They had talked of their wonderful meeting on the Aquitania, and the life to which it had led. Then the clock striking midnight reminded Rosemary that it was late. She had a headache, she said, and would take some aspirin. Murray was banished to his own room, which adjoined hers, but the door was left open between.
It was some time before Ralston went to sleep, yet he heard no sound from Rosemary's room. At last, however, he must have slumbered heavily, for he knew no more till dawn. Somehow, he had got into the habit of rousing at six, though he generally dozed again. This time he waked as usual, and, remembering Rosemary's headache, tiptoed to the door and peeped into the darkened room. To his surprise she was not in bed. Still, he was not worried. His thought was that she had risen early and stealthily, not to rouse him, and that she had gone to the bathroom next door to bathe and dress for an early walk.