Grey resumed his seat. Now the man was talking reasonably. Of course there were things that he ought to know—hundreds of things probably in which he was personally interested. The thought instantly became appalling. What, indeed, might not have happened in five months? Where had he been during that time? And what had he been doing?
“Yes,” he admitted, “you are quite right, I suppose. One of the things, for instance, is——”
“One of the things, for instance, is,” repeated the other, interrupting him, “that you left New York suddenly—disappeared totally and—you ought to know this for your own salvation—under a cloud.”
Grey started, and the colour that had returned to his face fled again. He leaned across the table, resting his arms on its marble top.
“Under a cloud!” he exclaimed, breathlessly. “My God, Frothingham! What do you mean?”
“I’d rather not go into details,” was the answer, given very quietly. “It’s not a pleasant position that I have chosen for myself, and I prefer that you don’t question me. What you have told me—and I’m satisfied now it is the truth—has put another light on the whole business. And you really cabled to New York?”
“Not half an hour ago. I sent three.”
“It’s too late, I suppose, to stop them.”
“I fancy so.”
“I’d see, if I were you. It is important.”