“You shall pull them out,” he answered, drawing her little hand to his lips.
“There, go away,” she said quickly, snatching it from him and moving from her chair as he rose. She rested her elbow on the mantel-shelf, and the candles from the silver candelabra shone on her face; it looked strained and weary. Kemp’s brows gathered in a frown as he saw it.
“I am going this minute,” he said; “and I wish you to go to bed at once. Don’t think of anything but sleep. Promise me you will go to bed as soon as I leave.”
“Very well.”
“Good-night, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her softly, “and dream happy dreams.” He stooped again to kiss her hands, and moved toward the door.
“Herbert!” His hand was on the portiere, and he turned in alarm at her strange call.
“What is it?” he asked, taking a step toward her.
“Nothing. Don’t—don’t come back, I say. I just wished to see your face. I shall write to you. Good-night.”
And the curtain fell behind him.
As he passed down the gravel walk, a hack drew up and stopped in front of the house. Louis Arnold sprang out. The two men came face to face.