He held out his hands blindly, saying:
“I must see you again, Elaine—my lost darling! Theresa is waiting for me—poor Theresa. I will come to the park another day, when my head pains me less.”
He shook hands with her and staggered away. The forgotten past was passing before him like a dream within a dream.
He never knew how he reached the hotel. He had lost all count of time and space; his eyes were bloodshot, his lips and tongue parched and dry.
He was late, and Theresa met him with tear-stained cheeks and hollow eyes. At sight of his haggard face her thoughts immediately fled to the story that Margaret Nugent had told her—the story of the vendetta.
“Harold, dear Harold, my husband,” she cried, “you are ill!”
He pushed her from him, but the next instant turned to comfort her.
“Yes, little one, I am ill, and I wish that I might die! What sin is mine that my misery should be so great that others should be cursed by the relentless fate that pursues me? Theresa, poor little confiding Theresa! Do not look at me in that way, dear one. I will shield you from every threatening storm. You will not be disappointed, Theresa, but we cannot leave London until to-morrow night. I have not completed my business yet; I have arranged for one more interview with—with an old friend.”
She noted his hesitation, and a pang shot through her heart.
“Is it imperative, Harold?” she asked. “I hate London so much—I hate it for your sake, darling. The hum that ever sounds in my ears sings of strife and woe, and every strange footstep fills me with undefinable terrors.”