She turned to them.
“Oh, thank you so much!” she said, effusively. “It is good of you!—And I don’t know what would have happened if anything serious had gone wrong with Ed to-night!—You see, we’re sailing for Buenos Ayres to-morrow! And he’s got such a good post—an agency—and if anything had prevented his going——”
“Never mind that, my dear,” said Durham, cutting short her loquacity. “These kind people do not want to go into our private affairs. Come along. I’ve inconvenienced them enough already.” He held out his hand to Mrs. Satterthwaite. “Good-bye, madam—and many thanks.”
She looked him in the eyes as she took his hand. They were the eyes of a stranger.
“Good-bye, Mr. Durham,” she said, and turned away.
Satterthwaite escorted the couple to the door.
“Your hat is here,” he said, as he took it off the clothes-peg where Tremaine had hung it. “Good-bye.—Good-bye, Mr. Durham.—What boat do you sail by to-morrow?” The enquiry was in the most casual tone of courteous interest.
“The Manhattan.”
“Pleasant voyage—and good luck to you both!” he said, cheerfully, and closed the door. He stood for a moment listening to their happy voices as they went out of the building and then turned to find his wife standing by his side.
“Jack!” she cried, and her eyes searched his face as if to read acknowledged partnership in a crime. “He’s gone?”