"What train did Mrs. Heyham take, Lang?" he asked again.
"I don't know, sir. We got to Victoria at about 3.20 and Mrs. Heyham told the porter to take her things to the cloak-room."
With a great effort James made himself smile. "That's all right," he said; "then she is probably going by the later train, as she arranged." He thought rapidly. His letter had reached him at half-past four—she had probably handed it in soon after four. It was nearly half-past five now. After what she had said in the letter, it was unlikely that her luggage would still be there, though she might, of course, have been bluffing.
He wondered for a moment whether he would go to Victoria himself, but he was too angry. He'd be damned if he'd hang around any cloak-room for her. "What's Heyham doing—looking for his wife?" She should come back without that.
He turned to Lang. "Go to Victoria at once," he said, "and find out, if you can, what train Mrs. Heyham took. The man in the cloak-room may know at what time she came for the luggage. If it is still there, wait until she comes and tell her that I have been obliged to change my plans and cannot leave London to-night. If Mrs. Heyham decides to come back, bring her home—if not, see her comfortably into her train."
Lang looked intelligently at his master, as if he were memorising these instructions. Then, with his usual, "Yes, sir," he went.
When the door had shut, James, without seeing it, looked slowly round the room. He had become aware of a curious light, giddy sensation. His mind seemed to be inactive, open, and blank. Suddenly his blood rushed to his head and he found himself trembling under a storm of rage.
For a moment he thought of Mary as an angry peasant thinks of an animal. She was his—his possession—his woman—and she had defied him. Words came to his lips that old Clarkson, years ago, had used of the factory girls, but as he stood there with his hands clenched and his red, distorted face thrust forward, he could not even speak them coherently. Presently the inhibiting pressure of his wrath grew less, and he turned to stride rapidly up and down the room. His anger, as it became clearer, had not shrunk, but only grown more vindictive and more intense. He saw Mary now as an embodiment of greed and treachery. Was she not, after all, Julius's sister?—he had been a fool to marry into such a family! All these years he had toiled at the business, working as much for her as for himself, and now, after taking all that she could get, she was angry with him, and for her revenge she ruined him. This was her answer to his years of love and care. He had loved her—he shivered with humiliation when he thought how abject he had sometimes been, how he had respected her, hung on her moods, twisted himself into ecstasies of sentimental gallantry! He had treated himself like dirt, because he had been afraid of wounding her damned delicacy—while she, in all probability, had been laughing at him! It had amused her to see him making a fool of himself over her imaginary fine feelings! She had been so sure of him that she had dared to tell him to his face that she did not love him!
He had adored her, and she, all the time, had been leading her own life, her double life, throwing him enough affection to keep him blind when he was at home. As soon as it suited her, she left him, left him to tell his son and his daughters—to tell everyone—that his wife had run away. Left him to explain why she had seen fit to do such a thing. He shuddered again with hatred and disgust.
At last, tired of walking, he threw himself into his great arm-chair. Mary imagined, no doubt, that he would forgive her. Forgive—he struck the arm of the chair with his open hand—while there was blood in his body, he would not forgive. She should come back, and she should sign the papers, and then, after that, he would live as he liked—treacherous—treacherous and cold-blooded! She had left him to explain to Trent, her prig of a son, why she had gone——