CHAPTER VII.
SIR HAROLD’S DEPARTURE.
“Here is a letter for you to post, Stimson,” Sir Harold said, two hours later. “Put it into the box with your own hands. To-night I am going to London, and you must join me at the Southwestern Hotel to-morrow afternoon. I have placed my affairs in the hands of my men of business, and I want you to feel perfectly satisfied that you will never regret leaving home, perhaps forever.”
“My home is with you, Sir Harold,” was the fervent response.
“Tell no one whither I am gone, and when you rejoin me, be careful that your movements are not watched by well-meaning friends.”
Stimson gathered a few points of necessary information regarding the luggage required, and one hour later Sir Harold left the park, simply attired in ordinary walking costume and carrying a light cane. To an ordinary observer he appeared to be going for a stroll. There was nothing in his manner to indicate that he was a broken and hopeless man.
Until he reached the end of the avenue, he looked neither to the right nor to the left. Then he paused and gazed over the smiling gardens, now aflame with flowers. The park stood darkly beyond, clothed in its summer dress, and in the shadow of a thousand murmurous trees nestled his beautiful home.
“Oh, Heaven!” he gasped. “What might have been! What might have been!”
He believed that he was alone, but his gesture of despair had been seen by other eyes—his words of agony had reached other ears.
There was the sound of a soft footfall, and he turned to behold the Italian singer.