"I'm sorry to cause you any more annoyance," he said, "but my business is urgent."
"I will not hear it," shouted Sir Geoffrey.
"You must," said Melville firmly. "I haven't come here to-day on my own account. I have come on behalf of Lady Holt."
For a moment the name seemed to convey nothing to Sir Geoffrey; indeed, the combination of words had never formed itself before his mind; he had not inherited the title when that passage in his life was closed. Melville saw that he was puzzled, and with cold emphasis he varied his announcement.
"On behalf of Lady Holt. I have come to see you about your wife."
Then he knew his shot had gone home. Sir Geoffrey paled, and seemed to be on the verge of a collapse; he turned vaguely to the fireplace where his great armchair stood, and sank feebly into it.
"Lady Holt!" he muttered. "Good God! my wife!"
Melville broke the silence.
"You thought that she was dead?" he said gently.
"Yes," said Sir Geoffrey; "I thought that she was dead." His voice was hoarse, his face white and hopeless. He did not question the truth of her reappearance in his life, or of Melville's coming as her ambassador; he knew how cruel destiny can be, how remorselessly she chooses our happiest moments to deal her hardest blows. For a moment the shock had numbed him, but as his full consciousness returned he was angry with himself for having betrayed by even so much as the quiver of an eyelid the fact that he was hurt, albeit the hurt was mortal.