“He is coming. He is coming. He is coming.”
Dusk was falling in the dim house. The shadows were growing black in the gloomy hall, where Monica was restlessly pacing. The last pale gleam of sunlight flickered and faded as she watched and waited with intense expectancy.
A man’s firm step upon the terrace without—a man’s tall shadow across the threshold. Monica sprang forward with a low cry.
“Randolph!”
“Not exactly that, Lady Trevlyn!”
She stopped short, and threw up her head like some beautiful wild creature at bay.
“Sir Conrad, how dare you! Leave my husband’s house this instant! Do you wish him to find you here? Do you wish a second chastisement at his hands?”
Conrad’s face flushed crimson, darkening with the intensity of his rage, as he heard those last words.
He had been drinking deeply; his usual caution and cowardice were merged in a passionate desire for revenge at all costs. And what better revenge could he enjoy at that moment than to be surprised by the master of the house upon his return in company with his wife? Monica had asked him if he wished Randolph to find him there—it was just that wish which had brought him.