When, at eleven, nothing happened as it had at the other two hours, he was even more confirmed in his purpose. Entreaties had no effect, and late in the morning, he succeeded in convincing us all that his purpose was irrevocable.
As we stood at the door, mournfully bidding our visitors farewell until the morrow, when he had decided to sail, I could see that he was eager to be alone. He had been looking now and then at the peculiar instrument which he had been studying earlier in the day and I could see on his face a sort of subtle intentness.
"I'm so sorry—Craig," murmured Elaine, choking back her emotion, and finding it impossible to go on.
"So am I, Elaine," he answered, tensely. "But—perhaps—when this trouble blows over—"
He paused, unable to speak, turned, and shook his head. Then with a forced gaiety he bade Elaine and Perry Bennett adieu, saying that perhaps a trip might do him good.
They had scarcely gone out and Kennedy closed the door carefully, when he turned and went directly to the instrument which I had seen him observing so interestedly.
Plainly, I could see that it was registering something.
"What's the matter?" I asked, non-plussed.
"Just a moment, Walter," he replied evasively, as if not quite sure of himself.
He walked fairly close to the window this time, keeping well out of the direct line of it, however, and there stood gazing out into the street.