"Not as yet," Arnold replied. "That may all come out at the inquest."
"To be sure," Mr. Weatherley admitted. "At the inquest—yes, yes! Poor Rosario!"
He watched the smoke from his cigar curl up to the ceiling. Then he turned to some papers on his table.
"Get your desk in, Chetwode," he ordered, "and then take down some letters. The American mail goes early this afternoon."
CHAPTER IX
A STRAINED CONVERSATION
Arnold swung around the corner of the terrace that evening with footsteps still eager notwithstanding his long walk. The splendid egoism of youth had already triumphed, the tragedy of the day had become a dim thing. He himself was moving forward and onward. He glanced up at the familiar window, feeling a slight impulse of disappointment when he received no welcoming wave of the hand. It was the first time for weeks that Ruth had not been there. He climbed the five flights of stone stairs, still buoyant and light-hearted. Glancing into his own room, he found it empty, then crossed at once the passageway and knocked at Ruth's door. She was lying back in her chair, with her back toward the window.
"Why, Ruth," he exclaimed, "how dare you desert your post!"
He felt at once that there was something strange in her reception of him. She stopped him as he came across the room, holding out both her hands. Her wan face was strained as she gazed and gazed. Something of the beautiful softness of her features had passed for the moment. She was so anxious, so terrified lest she should misread what was written in his face.