She paused, breathless. “It is what he himself most craves,” said Gilead. A certain perplexity overcame him. “I confess, Madam,” he said, “that what puzzles me is the sudden inevitability of this meeting so long delayed.”
“It was due to myself,” answered the lady; and, panting, continued, with an hysterical incoherence: “A recent snap-shot—horrible, libellous, revolting—appeared in a weekly paper—I feared he would see it—urged by desperation—a travesty of the truth—reality less disenchanting—recoil from worst to something comparatively reassuring—resolved in despair to risk all—force conclusions for bliss or damnation—insisted on meeting, and having written would have withdrawn, but too late. And now—” she broke off with a gasp, and then continued: “O, sir! your appearance—the letter—I believed that he had seen, and that you—his agent—the messenger of my doom—!”
She stopped, gazing at her hearer in liquid emotion.
“You wrong me,” said Gilead gravely, “in deeming me capable of so unchivalrous a deed. No, Madam; my mission—it is unnecessary and would be unadvisable to explain how and where undertaken—was one of appeal on behalf of Mr Bundy’s conscious disabilities. That mission being now accomplished, I trust to the satisfaction of all parties, I shall beg permission to take my leave, only first charging myself with such answer as you shall deem it expedient to return to your richly endowed suitor.”
THE QUEST OF THE OBESE GENTLEMAN (concluded)
Gilead walked back to the Agency with a firm step, and that steadfast purpose of loyalty burning unquenched in his heart. On the way he stopped at a famous jeweller’s in Bond Street to make a purchase, having accomplished which he continued his journey to the office.
Something unwonted in the aspect of his private room struck him the instant he entered it. It was very orderly, like a newly-trimmed grave, and the amanuensis, though it was not yet five o’clock, was absent. He sat down at his desk a moment, and buried his face in his hands. Then suddenly he rose, and walked across to the table in the window. The typewriter was closed; the papers relating to all business, past and to come, were neatly docketed and arranged in accessible sheaves. After a moment’s strange observation he turned away, and, stepping to the bell, with a somewhat pale face, summoned a favoured employé.
“Mr Nestle,” he said, when the man appeared: “is he in?”
“Mr Nestle and Miss Halifax, sir,” was the answer, “were both unavoidably summoned away. Miss Halifax left a message begging, as a great favour, that you would call at the flat, sir, if you desired for any reason to see her.”
Gilead nodded.