So was Stacey glad. His anger was all that sustained him on the ride home. For he felt that everything was Mr. Latimer’s fault. All the worst of Marian he had given her. Almost he had pointed the revolver.
CHAPTER XXIII
Stacey let himself in with a latch-key, then hurried up the stairs to his own rooms. Once in his study, he threw himself down upon a couch and lay there for a long time, motionless, his hands thrown back and clasped beneath his head. But there was no relaxation in his stillness. His body was tense, and now and then a spasm contracted the taut muscles of his face. The late western sunlight poured in through the windows and flickered brightly across the wall, and the shrill distant voices of children at play were audible.
At last Stacey turned his head slowly to look at a small travelling clock on a stand near the couch. The hands pointed to six-thirty. He got up with an effort, pressed the button of a bell, then sat down at his desk, rested his head in his hands, and stared blindly out of the window.
“If Mrs. Blair is in,” he said, without moving, when Parker entered the room, “please ask her if she will be so kind as to come up here for a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, and went out.
Presently Catherine tapped at the door, and Stacey rose wearily. “Come in!” he called.
She looked fresh and very young to him who felt so old. “You wanted to see me?” she began, then broke off to gaze at him in alarm. “Stacey!” she cried, “what’s the matter?”
“Catherine,” he said in a monotonous voice, “do me a favor, please. Tell my father I won’t be down to dinner—and why. Marian Latimer shot herself this morning. She is dying. I have just been there. It has rather knocked me out.”
Catherine had turned pale, and her eyes were wide with horror. “Oh!” she gasped, then suddenly went closer to him. “Stacey,” she said gently, “sit down.”