Arrived at the terminus, Lyveden handed her out. Since it was Sunday morning, the station was quiet. Indeed, except for a crowd of "theatricals"——
Anthony remembered the roses which Lord Pomfret had told him to purchase with an unpleasant shock.
As if a switch had been turned, all the uncertainty of his future rose up in a cold black wave. The hopelessness of their friendship stood out brutally. The thought that he was an impostor came pelting back, to set his ears burning and—the barrier that had stood between them crashed again into place.
Mechanically he saw her into a cab and told the driver to go to a house in Mayfair. Then he took off his hat.
"I hope," he said lamely, "I hope you'll get home all right."
Valerie looked at him curiously. Then she put out her hand.
"I shall never forget your kindness," she said gently.
When Anthony, some fifty minutes later, opened the front door to admit
Lord Pomfret into his father's house, he saw that his hour was come.
For a moment the youth glared at him with the eyes of a snake. Then—
"Oh, you're back, are you?" he snarled.