Then she had been a failure, after all, and had lived in a fool’s paradise for these past days.
“I’ll come at once,” she said.
Her fingers trembled as she fastened her dress, and she hated herself for such a display of weakness. Perhaps Stella was not coming into the cast in her old part; perhaps some new character had been written in; perhaps it was not for “Roselle” at all that she had been re-engaged. These and other speculations rioted in her mind; and she was in the passage and the door was opened when she remembered that Jack Knebworth would want the manuscript. She ran upstairs, and, by an aberration of memory, forgot entirely where the script had been left. At last, in despair, she went down to the landlady.
“I have left some manuscripts which are rather important. Would you bring them up to Mr. Knebworth’s house when you find them? They’re in a little brown jacket——” She described the appearance as well as she could.
It was Stella Mendoza’s car; she recognized the machine with a pang. So Jack and she were reconciled!
In a minute she was inside the machine, the door closed behind her, and was sitting by the driver, who did not speak.
“Is Mr. Brixan with Mr. Knebworth?” she asked.
He did not reply. She thought he had not heard her, until he turned with a wide sweep and set the car going in the opposite direction.
“This is not the way to Mr. Knebworth’s,” she said in alarm. “Don’t you know the way?”
Still he made no reply. The machine gathered speed, passed down a long, dark street, and turned into a country lane.