A FORLORN HOPE
Aynesworth ceased tugging at the strap of his portmanteau, and rose slowly to his feet. A visitor had entered his rooms—apparently unannounced.
“I must apologize,” the newcomer said, “for my intrusion. Your housekeeper, I presume it was, whom I saw below, told me to come up.”
Aynesworth pushed forward a chair.
“Won’t you sit down?” he said. “I believe that I am addressing Mr. Lumley Barrington.”
Not altogether without embarrassment, Barrington seated himself. Something of his ordinary confidence of bearing and demeanor had certainly deserted him. His manner, too, was nervous. He had the air of being altogether ill at ease.
“I must apologize further, Mr. Aynesworth,” he continued, “for an apparently ill-timed visit. You are, I see, on the eve of a journey.”
“I am leaving for America tomorrow,” Aynesworth answered.
“With Sir Wingrave Seton, I presume?” Barrington remarked.
“Precisely,” Aynesworth answered.