CHAPTER XXXVI
THE MODERN RICHELIEU
“So I have found you at last!”
Mr. Sabin looked up with a distinct start from the table where he sat writing. When he saw who his visitor was, he set down his pen and rose to receive her at once. He permitted himself to indulge in a little gesture of relief; her noiseless entrance had filled him with a sudden fear.
“My dear Helène,” he said, placing a chair for her, “if I had had the least idea that you wished to see me, I would have let you know my whereabouts. I am sorry that you should have had any difficulty; you should have written.”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly.
“What does it all mean?” she asked. “Why are you masquerading in cheap lodgings, and why do they say at Kensington that you have gone abroad? Have things gone wrong?”
He turned and faced her directly. She saw then that pale and haggard though he was, his was not the countenance of a man tasting the bitterness of failure.
“Very much the contrary,” he said; “we are on the brink of success. All that remains to be done is the fitting together of my American work with the last of these papers. It will take me about another twenty-four hours.”
She handed across to him a morning newspaper, which she had been carrying in her muff. A certain paragraph was marked.