Less than five minutes later, they had arrived at the Langham Hotel, but they had not exchanged a single word during that time.
Colonel Harris was in the sitting room, waiting for his daughter's return. The maid had told him that her mistress had gone to Sir Thomas Ryder's and had promised to be home again in about an hour, so he was not really anxious, only very worried about her. Personally, he saw no issue to the terrible tangle, and his heart ached for her, as much as it did for Luke.
He found himself quite unable to sit at the club. Luke de Mountford's name was in every man's mouth. The obsession was unendurable, the countless arguments adduced by indifferent lips was positively nerve-racking. Colonel Harris after half an hour had enough of it, and went back to the Langham.
He did not greet his brother-in-law very warmly: he did not feel very well disposed toward him, as he had a vague idea that Sir Thomas Ryder was in a measure responsible for Luke's terrible fate.
"Lou dear, it's very late," he said with gentle reproach when she came in.
"You'll have to forgive her, Will," interposed Sir Thomas, "she came over to have a talk with me, and we went on to try and see old Rad, who is dying, I am afraid, poor chap."
"Now, my dear," he added turning to Louisa whilst he dived into his breast-pocket, from which he extracted a note-book, "go to your own room and read this through very quietly while I talk to your father."
He gave her the book, which she took without a word.
"It won't," he added, "take you very long to read. When you have finished, bring me the notes back, I want them to-night."
She kissed her father before she went out of the room. He and she had both guessed—by that unexplainable, subtle intuition born of sympathy—what the pages of that note-book contained.