Lady Wyndover uttered a cry at the simple question. Then she started off for Oakfield.
Norman went to the shipping agents and made his inquiries. A vessel started that night from the London Docks, another left Liverpool on the next morning; the “Neptune,” from London, was the faster vessel.
Norman booked two berths—two, because they would afford more comfort and privacy—and Norman knew he would need both in his frame of mind. Then he took a cab to Trafford’s rooms.
The door was shut; no response met his knock. He went to the Marlborough and inquired of the porter.
“The duke was here this afternoon, my lord,” he said, “and he dines here to-night.”
Norman breathed a sigh of relief, then drove to his own club and called huskily for a soda and whisky. While he was drinking it, it occurred to him that Trafford would not have any traveling clothes up with him, and that, as he would most assuredly start for Three Star immediately he heard Norman’s exculpation, it would be awkward for him to travel, say, in an evening suit.
He went back to the rooms, but they were still closed and lifeless. Then, with a thoughtfulness which would have considerably amazed his friends, he went to an outfitter’s, bought an outfit, had it packed in an overland trunk, and started it down to the docks.
By that time he was famished, and as he drove to the Marlborough he wondered whether he could persuade Trafford to sit down to dinner before he had convinced him of his, Norman’s, innocence.
“The duke has not arrived, my lord,” said the porter.
Norman went in and waited. Time passed—slowly, then quickly. He began to fret and fidget. Then he remembered the telegram Lady Wyndover was to send him, cursed himself for his heartlessness—for he was a good son—and bounced off to his own club. The telegram was there.