"The only star in the darkness!" He repeated the stranger's words. "For most of us there's been one woman who was all of that. If she fails us——" He stifled his pessimism. "When stars fail, one waits for the morning."
"So you, too, had your woman!"
The stranger smiled and relaxed against the cush
ions. "Foolish of me! You can't blame me. Twice I've believed that I'd lost her. First there was Gervis and then this Lockwood. Poor devils, I cry quits on them. But when I found you so at home here, you can guess what I dreaded. And yet you'll never guess why I followed you into this house." He lit a cigarette and crossed his legs. "I didn't want you to escape me till I'd asked a question—— Has it ever entered your head that Pollock might not be dead?"
Tabs started. Then he sat very still. It was the commonplace tone in which the question had been asked that froze his blood. It was as though this man had said, "I can bring him back." For a moment he knew genuine fear—the non-physical fear which the impalpable can awake in the bravest mind. Through the open window the companionable mutter of London entered. The normality of everything on which his eyes rested did its best to reassure him—the mellow evening sunlight in the friendly room, the flowers in the rockery, the toy-boat on the pond. "I never dig up my dead." He remembered Maisie's motto. But what if the dead——
He pulled himself together. Pollock not dead! An absurd suggestion! Maisie had changed her name twice since then—a sufficient proof! The poor fellow was demented. Everything that he had done bore the hall-mark of insanity. He had owned that he had been deranged to within a month ago. Everything that he had said might be quite true. He probably had been the dead man's friend and in love with Maisie at the time of her first marriage. The
misfortunes that had befallen him had exaggerated his love into mania—a mania which the news of Gervis and then of Lockwood had rendered active. He felt an immense compassion for the man. There, save for the grace of God, sat himself. But what was to be done? Already Maisie was overdue. Not a second could be wasted. He must humor him and get him out of the house, if a scene was to be prevented.
And all the time the stranger had been watching him—following his thoughts, no doubt. He spoke again. "Don't you agree with me? It would be damned awkward if Pollock came back."
Tabs forced a smile. "I'm not so sure that I do. She never loved any one but her first husband. She's told me so. The other two—— I don't believe she herself knows how they happened. They were soldiers. They weren't long for this world. She didn't want to do them out of anything." He glanced at his watch. "By Jove, and I've not dined yet! I'm afraid I must be off. How about you? I'd be awfully glad if you'd take dinner with me."
The man jumped to his feet, so that Tabs rose with him. But once they were on their feet an amused expression of cunning came into his eyes. It told Tabs plainly that he had seen through the strategy. He shook his head. "Very good of you. But I'm waiting for Maisie." He held out his hand. It was evident that he was determined to take Tabs at his word. "We'll meet again, perhaps. What you've just said piques my curiosity. Before you go, there's one more question. In your opinion what