“Yes; Henderson's dead.” And Jack looked Mavick squarely in the face.
“Ah!” And Mavick smiled faintly, and then said, gravely: “It was an awful business. So sudden, you know, that I couldn't do anything.” He made a movement to pass on. “I suppose there has been no—no—”
“I suppose not,” said Jack, “except that Mrs. Henderson has gone to Europe.”
“Ah!” And Mr. Mavick didn't wait for further news, but hurried up, with a “Good-by.”
So Mavick was following Carmen to Europe. Well, why not? What an unreal world it all was, that of a few months ago! The gigantic Henderson; Jack's own vision of a great fortune; Carmen and her house of Nero; the astute and diplomatic Mavick, with his patronizing airs! It was like a scene in a play.
He stepped into a shop and selected a toy for the boy. It was a real toy, and it was for a real boy. Jack experienced a genuine pleasure at the thought of pleasing him. Perhaps the little fellow would not know him.
And then he thought of Edith—not of Edith the mother, but of Edith the girl in the days of his wooing. And he went into Maillard's. The pretty girl at the counter knew him. He was an old customer, and she had often filled orders for him. She had despatched many a costly box to addresses he had given her. It was in the recollection of those transactions that he said: “A box of marrons glaces, please. My wife prefers that.”
“Shall I send it?” asked the girl, when she had done it up.
“No, thanks; we are not in town.”
“Of course,” she said, beaming upon him; “nobody is yet.”