"This—this: I knew that Wallace knew Alan. So—so when I saw Wallace there, I was sure Alan was there. And I left. That's all." She went back to the chair by the table and sat.
"You walked right into my house!" marveled Farvel; "—after all the years I've searched for you!"
"Ha! ha!—Just my luck!" She crossed her feet and folded her arms.
There was a pause.
Wallace was plainly in misery, at times holding his breath, again almost blowing, like a man after a run. He shifted uneasily. The sweat stood out on his white temples, and he brushed the drops into his hair.
Of a sudden, Farvel turned to him. "Why didn't you tell me it was Laura?" he demanded. "You saw her there—you came here—why didn't you ask me to come?"
"Well," faltered Wallace, "I—I don't know why I didn't. I'm sorry.
It was just—just——" His voice seemed to go from him. He swallowed.
Now, Farvel's manner changed. His face darkened, and grew stern.
"There's something here that I don't understand," he said, angrily.
Clare sprang up. "Oh, drop it, will you?" she asked rudely; "—before all this crowd."
Farvel turned on her fiercely. "No, I won't drop it! I want this thing cleared up!" And to Wallace again, "For ten years you know how I've searched. And in the beginning, you know better than anyone else in the whole world how I suffered. And yet today, when you found Laura, you failed to tell me—me, of all persons!" His voice rose to a shout. "Why, it's monstrous!"