He never loved the woman he had espoused, but in the earlier portion of the period of his intimacy with her—and, indeed, for the first year or two of his married life—he had liked her. Had this not been the case, he would never have made her his wife, but the liking no longer existed. It was succeeded by a deadly and rancorous hate, which of late had become intensified.
When he saw her on the following morning, he maintained a dignified silence, and the miserable pair did not exchange a word. Whatever it was necessary to say was conveyed through the medium of Amy, the servant girl, a faithful little maid, who was very well used to these scenes. She liked her mistress, but had no very great predilection for the doctor.
Bourne was from home the greater part of the following day. He came in shortly before seven o’clock in the evening, and betook himself to his surgery.
At twenty minutes after eight he heard a loud rap at the front door. He started, and listened. He heard the well-known voice of Shearman, who was speaking to the servant.
There was no mistaking it for the voice of the detective, who had an American twang, and was altogether dissimilar to any of the other visitors to the doctor’s residence.
“Show the gentleman in here,” said Bourne to Amy, when he was informed by the girl that the American was in the passage.
Mr. Shearman entered the surgery in an easy, self-satisfied sort of manner; he was smoking a cigar, which he at once took out of his mouth and placed on the mantelpiece.
“Pardon me, doctor, I forgot for the moment that the Virginian weed might be objectionable to gentlemen of your profession.”
“By no means; I am a smoker myself, and have no kind of objection to the fumes of tobacco. Pray continue your smoking. I shall in all probability join you shortly.”
“Oh, well, if you’ve no objection.”