CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was mid-afternoon when Thayer once more entered the hotel. The proprietor met him at the door.
"This message was just telephoned in, Mr. Thayer. The boy is getting ready to carry it to the cottage."
Thayer tore open the envelope indifferently. Exhausted by the struggle and the shock through which he had been passing, for the time being he felt little interest in any word which could come to him from the outside world. His entire life seemed to him limited to one short hour in one small room, apart from the world and its concerns. That brief episode was too recent and too personal to allow him at once to cast off its impression. In his present mood, it appeared to be the focal point of his entire life, the arena upon which the two warring strains in his blood had met to fight to a finish. The fight had been sharp and fierce; already he was beginning to rejoice that the Puritan had conquered the Slav. Beyond that point, as yet, he was powerless to go. Later, his rejoicing would be increased by the knowledge that in his own words and deeds he had never swerved from a certain loyalty towards Lorimer.
"Mr. Lorimer is—" the proprietor was beginning vaguely.
Thayer's nod was more curt than he realized.
"Mr. Lorimer is dead."
"You don't mean it! When?" The man was visibly startled.