“And if I hadn’t broken off our nominal engagement this morning, Miss Trant, I should be able to do it this afternoon; now.”
This meant that he was positively eager to get rid of me. Knife-thrust as it was, I was glad to feel it. It spurred me for what I had to do, this time without even being allowed to pick my minute; to rise, smile conventionally, hold out my hand in farewell.
He took it lightly, dropping it almost at once. In a tone of unmistakable, undisguised relief he added, “So that’s the end of that.”
“Yes!” I returned, quite casually enough to deceive a man, though it took my last ounce of effort. “Good-bye!”
“Wait a minute. I said ‘the end of that,’” took up my late employer. “Now here’s something that begins. Will you sit down again, please?”
The influence of the place we were in, I suppose, made me obey him. Again I sat back in the green-leather chair, wondering if it made it better or worse to have this leave-taking so dragged out, wondering why he chose this form of torture.
He came and stood above me. He began, quite gently, “I’ve taken your word that that about Vandeleur was an accident, not an appointment. Well, then! If it wasn’t on his account that you had that wire sent to recall you, if it wasn’t because of him you bolted like that from me—from Anglesey,” he spoke more emphatically, “Why was it?”
Again this cross-examination? What was I to say? I looked desperately about the big room and its handsome fittings, at the side-table where I used to sit with my notes.
“Why?” he insisted.