He walked toward the door. She stood with her finger pressing the bell. He seemed somehow to have lost what little presence he had ever possessed. His head was bowed; he walked as one feeling for his way in the dark. Never once did he look round. As he stood before the door, her lips were suddenly parted. A great wave of pity rose up from amongst those other things in her heart. She would have called out to him, but her butler was already there. The door had been opened.
She clenched her teeth, and resumed her place upon the sofa. She heard the front door closed, and she found herself watching him through the blind. She saw him cross the road very much as he had crossed the room—unseeing, stricken. She watched him until he crossed the corner of the square. Her eyes were misty with tears!
CHAPTER XXIX
THE COURAGE OF DESPERATION
Captain Vandermere had a friend from the country, and was giving him supper at the Savoy. He was also pointing out the different people who were worthy of note.
“That,” he said, pointing to an adjoining table, “is really one of the most interesting men in London.”
“He looks like an actor,” his friend remarked.
“So he may be,” Vandermere answered grimly, “but his is not the Thespian stage. He is a lecturer and writer on occultism, and in his way, I suppose, he is amazingly clever.”