Trafford turned his face away. It was lined by a deep emotion.
“Lady Ada Lancing,” he said, almost inaudibly.
“Ah!” remarked Varley in the slowest of drawls. “We have a great deal to thank Lady Ada Lancing for. We owe her a great debt. It’s a pity she isn’t a man or—we could pay her!”
“My God! Ada! Is it possible?” exclaimed Norman, under his breath.
“My dear young friend, anything is possible to a woman who loves another woman’s husband, and thinks she sees a chance of robbing her of him.” Then, after a moment, as the two men stood with downcast eyes, each filled with shame for this woman’s sake, he laid his hand upon Trafford’s shoulder. “This seems a suitable time for a drink,” he said.
Trafford started.
“I must go back at once!” he said, taking a step toward the door, but Varley’s hand had gripped him firmly.
“After a drink,” he said.
Trafford allowed himself to be led to the Eldorado, and Varley administered the doctor’s prescription—and liberally.
But within the hour Trafford was riding to the hut on the hills as if he were racing for life. Whereas he was only racing for love!