Brushes in hand, he gazed at his reflection in the glass.
“Oh, you poisonous fool!” he hissed. “You blundering, blunt-nosed idiot, you’ve put the burning lid on and screwed it down. You’ve torn it—bent it irreparably. Of course, she’ll think I meant it. I meant her to. . . . And now—I’ve put myself out of Court. I’ve told her to run away and play. I’ve pushed her off!”
He closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the wall.
“Oh, Kate, Kate, Kate! . . . What have I done, my sweet? What have I done?”
Two hours had gone labouring, the second of which Captain Festival had spent perambulating Lincoln’s Inn Fields and consulting his watch. His nervous demeanour was such that by ten o’clock he was being observed by the police. On the stroke of the hour, however, the suspect disappeared. . . .
As the door closed behind him—
“Forsyth,” gasped Giles, “she’s turned me down.”
“No?”—incredulously.
“It’s a shell-proof fact. And I’ve just tied it up, nailed it down and sunk it in the bright, blue sea. I warn you, I ought to be removed. I’m a public danger.” He began to search his pockets with nervous inefficacy. “Where’s that blinkin’ letter gone?”