There was another silence. The proprietor had retired, and they had the Palace Restaurant entirely to themselves. The rain was dashing against the windows. The street light outside showed only darkness.
What, Edward wondered, was Mildred doing now? She was capable of anything—of telephoning to the Baxters, to the police. Perhaps she had gone away herself. Perhaps she was wandering about in this storm, searching for her husband. It was a wild and fantastic notion, but that was the sort of thing women did. Look at this one! He did look at her, and she looked at him, with cold scorn.
“Will you be kind enough—” she began.
Just then the door opened and two men came in. They were the editor and the subeditor of the local paper, both of whom Edward knew.
“Hello, Cane!” said the editor. “Just put the paper to bed. What are you doing here?”
“Nothing much,” Edward replied as casually as possible.
The editor turned to the fair unknown.
“How do you like our little town, Mrs. Cane?” he asked. “Once you get to know—”
“I am not Mrs. Cane,” she interrupted frigidly.
“Oh! I—er—yes,” said the editor.