“I will go,” Ellison said, “and find the director. He knows me well, and he will find me a table.”
He elbowed his way up to the further end of the apartment. Matravers remained a somewhat conspicuous figure in the doorway looking from one to another of the little parties with a smile, half amused, half interested. Suddenly his face became grave,—his heart gave an unaccustomed leap! He stood quite still, his eyes fixed upon the bent head and white shoulders of a woman only a few yards away from him. Almost at the same moment Berenice looked up and their eyes met. The colour left her cheeks,—she was ghastly pale! A sentence which she had just begun died away upon her lips; her companion, who was intent upon the wine list, noticed nothing. She made a movement as though to rise. Simultaneously Matravers turned upon his heel and left the room.
Her companion, who was intent upon the wine list, noticed nothing
Ellison came hurrying back in a few moments and looked in vain for his companion. As he stood there watching the throng of people, Berenice called him to her.
“Your friend,” she said, “has gone away. He stood for a moment in the doorway like Banquo’s ghost, and then he disappeared.”
Ellison looked vaguely bewildered.
“Matravers is an odd sort,” he remarked. “I suppose it is one of the penalties of genius to be compelled to do eccentric things. I must have my supper alone.”
“Or with us,” she said. “You know Mr. Thorndyke, don’t you? There is plenty of room here.”