Limp, pitiable, worn by the long fight he had waged, Minot stood staring helplessly at her heaving shoulders.
"Then—I can only say I'm sorry," he murmured. "And—good-by."
He waited. She did not turn toward him. He stumbled out of the room.
CHAPTER XXII
"WELL, HARDLY EVER—"
Minot went below and sent two messages, one to Jephson, the other to Thacker. The lobby of the De la Pax was thronged with brilliantly attired wedding guests who, metaphorically, beat their breasts in perplexity over the tidings that had come even as they craned their necks to catch the first glimpse of that distinguished bridal party. The lavishly decorated parlor that was to have been the scene of the ceremony stood tragically deserted. Minot cast one look at it, and hurried again to his own particular cell.
He took a couple of time-tables from his desk, and sat down in a chair facing the window. All over now. Nothing to do but return to the North, as fast as the trains would take him. He had won, but he had also lost. He felt listless, weary. He let the time-tables fall to the floor, and sat gazing out at that narrow street—thinking—wondering—wishing—
It was late in the afternoon when the clamor of his telephone recalled him to himself. He leaped up, and seized the receiver. Allan Harrowby's voice came over the wire.
"Can you run down to the room, Minot?" he inquired. "The last call, old boy."
Minot went. He found both the Harrowbys there, prepared to say good-by to San Marco forever.