Mr. Sabin’s hand slid down again to his side.
“I am charmed to hear it,” he declared. “You are, I presume, in earnest?”
“Most certainly. It is as I say; the cause for personal enmity between us is removed. Save for a strong personal dislike, which under the circumstances I trust that you will pardon me”—Mr. Sabin bowed—“I have no feeling towards you whatever!”
Mr. Sabin drew a somewhat exaggerated sigh of relief. “I live,” he said, “with one more fear removed. But I must confess,” he added, “to a certain amount of curiosity. We have a somewhat tedious journey before us, and several hours at our disposal; would it be asking you too much——”
Felix waved his hand.
“Not at all,” he said. “A few words will explain everything. I have other matters to speak of with you, but they can wait. As you remark, we have plenty of time before us. Three weeks ago I received a telegram from Brussels. It was from—forgive me, if I do not utter her name in your presence; it seems somehow like sacrilege.”
Mr. Sabin bowed; a little red spot was burning through the pallor of his sunken cheeks.
“I was there,” Felix continued, “in a matter of twenty-four hours. She was ill—believed herself to be dying. We spoke together of a little event many years old; yet which I venture to think, neither you, nor she, nor I have ever forgotten.”
Mr. Sabin pulled down the blind by his side; it was only a stray gleam of wintry sunshine, which had stolen through the grey clouds, but it seemed to dazzle him.
“It had come to her knowledge that you and I were together in London—that you were once more essaying to play a part in civilised and great affairs. And lest our meeting should bring harm about, she told me—something of which I have always been in ignorance.”