He made no answer to that. He went to the door and unfastened it and looked out into the street. With the opening of the door the tumult seemed to swell in volume, but the street itself was quiet; there was no one within sight. He turned to her swiftly and took hold of her arm and led her outside.
“There is nothing to be nervous about,” he said. “We shan’t meet a soul. I came this way just before I saw you.”
None the less, he carried his revolver in his hand, and hurried her up the street, keeping a sharp look-out against surprise, until he got her safely to Bainbridge’s office. The room when they entered it was empty as when he had left it, and showed no sign of its owner having been there.
Esmé sat down, white and shaken, and leaned back in her chair without speaking. A clerk came to the door and inquired whether he could do anything. Her appearance, hatless and dishevelled and white, had struck him when she entered. She asked for water; and he went away to fetch it. Hallam took the glass from him when he returned with it and carried it to her himself.
“Mrs Sinclair isn’t hurt, I hope?” the clerk asked.
“No,” Hallam answered curtly; and the clerk withdrew.
At the sound of her name, Esmé’s eyes sought Hallam’s face. She saw it harden, saw the lips compress themselves, as he turned with the glass in his hand and approached her chair. She took the glass from him with a word of thanks, and drank the contents slowly, while he paced the carpet with long, uneasy strides, backwards and forwards, before the open window.
“Paul,” she asked suddenly, “have you seen Jim?”
“I saw him yesterday,” he answered, without pausing in his walk.
“Yesterday!” she echoed, her thoughts reverting to the dinner party, and to the curious preoccupation of her brother-in-law’s manner. Jim had known yesterday that Paul was alive; and he had said nothing.