"Merritt, I am going out again at once. If Mr. Carson or Mr. Abinger send over for me from the Club, I'm engaged. Very important business—here. Shall probably see them later in the afternoon—understand?"
"Certainly, sir," said the discreet Merritt, and withdrew.
Arrived at the Royal once more, Bramham this time addressed himself to the inquiry office like an honest man, and was presently informed that Miss Chard would see him in her private sitting-room. His mental eyebrows went up, but he decorously followed the slim and sad-eyed coolie attendant.
In a room redeemed from "hoteliness" by a few original touches, fragrant with violets and sprays of mimosa, he found a girl waiting for him, whom for a moment he scarcely recognised. It was the first time he had seen Rosalind Chard in any but the simplest clothes, and he at first supposed the difference in her attributable to her dress. She wore a beautiful gown of lilac-coloured crêpe, with silken oriental embroiderings scrolled upon it, and a big lilac-wreathed hat—a picture of well-bred, perfectly-dressed dewy womanhood, with the faint and fascinating stamp of personality on every tiniest detail of her. She stood in the middle of the room and held out a slim, bare hand to Bramham, and he took it, staring at her and it. He was relieved to see that it was not jewelled.
"I can't believe my eyes," he said. "It is the most amazing thing that ever happened—to see you!"
"Why?" she asked softly, looking him in the eyes.
"I thought you were in England fighting your way along the road to Fame——"
"I don't care about Fame any more, Charlie."
"Don't care for Fame! Why, you were crazy after it!"
"Crazy—yes, that is the right word. Now I am sane. You have had my hand quite a long time——"