"I am sure that he had not the slightest idea of doing anything so unselfish," returned Lady Dinsmore, composedly.
"Then what——"
"Why are you so absolutely sure that he is dead?" she asked softly.
Frank stared at her in blank amazement.
"What do you mean?" he gasped. Was she mad also?
"Simply that he is no more dead than you or I," she retorted, coolly. "What evidence have we? A letter, in his own handwriting, telling us gravely that he has decided to die! Does it sound probable? It is a safe presumption that that is the farthest thing from his intentions. For when did Gregory ever tell the truth concerning his movements? No, depend upon it, he is not dead. For purposes of his own, he is pretending to be. He has decided to exist—surreptitiously."
"Why should he?" asked the bewildered young man. This was the maddest theory of all. His head swam with a riot of conflicting impressions. He seemed to have been hurled headlong into a frightful nightmare, and he longed to emerge again into the light of the prosaic, everyday world.
The door at the farther end of the room opened. He looked up eagerly, half expecting to see Farrington himself, smiling upon the threshold.
It was Doris. She stood there for a moment, uncertain, gazing at them rather strangely. In her white morning dress, slightly crumpled, and her dark hair arranged in smooth bandeaux, she was amazingly like a child. The somewhat cold spring sunlight which streamed through the window showed that the event of the night had already set its mark upon her. There were faint violet shadows beneath her eyes, and her face was pale.