“There is no doubt about it,” Bellamy declared. “I have been to the Mortuary. It is certainly he. All our work has been in vain—just as I thought, too, that we had made a splendid success of it.”
She looked at him compassionately.
“It is hard lines, dear,” she admitted. “You are tired, too. You look as though you had been up all night.”
“Yes, I am tired,” he answered, sinking into a chair. “I am worse than tired. This has been the grossest failure of my career, and I am afraid that it is the end of everything. I have lost twenty thousand pounds of Secret Service money; I have lost the one chance which might have saved England. They will never trust me again.”
“You did your best,” she said, coming over and sitting on the arm of his chair. “You did your best, David.”
She laid her hands upon his forehead, her cheek against his—smooth and cold—exquisitely refreshing it seemed to his jaded nerves.
“Ah, Louise!” he murmured, “life is getting a little too strenuous. Perhaps we have given too much of it up to others. What do you think?”
She shook her head.
“Dear, I have felt like that sometimes, yet what can we do? Could we be happy, you and I, in exile, if the things which we dread were coming to pass? Could I go away and hide while my countrymen were being butchered out of existence?— And you—you are not the sort of man to be content with an ignoble peace. No, it isn’t possible. Our work may not be over yet—”
There was a knock at the door, and Annette entered with many apologies.