"How do you do, Beaumont?" he said as the artist arose with a frank smile and took his hand. "I thought I heard a scream."
"Did you?" replied Beaumont, assisting his visitor to remove his great coat. "Then I'm afraid I must have been asleep, as I heard nothing, not even your knock; the opening of the door aroused me."
"I didn't knock at all," said Reginald, sitting down by the fire and drawing his chair closer to the burning coals. "I should have done so, but I forgot and walked straight in--you don't mind, do you?"
"Not at all, my boy, you are perfectly welcome," answered the artist heartily. "Will you smoke?"
"Thank you, I've got my pipe."
He lighted his pipe and lay back in the chair watching the fire, while Beaumont, bending forward with his face in the shadow puffed at his cigarette, watching Reginald, and crouching on the dark staircase with her eye to the keyhole, a silent woman watched both. It was a curious situation and not without a touch of grim comedy, though, as a matter of fact, the play which the trio were about to act had more in it of the tragic than the comic element.
Reginald, looking sad and weary, watched the fire for some moments, till Beaumont, feeling the silence oppressive, broke it with a laugh.
"How fearfully dull you are, Blake," he said gaily, "is anything wrong?"
Blake withdrew his sad eyes from the fire and looked at the speaker with a singular smile.
"Not what many people would call wrong," he said at length. "I have a large income, I am young, and I marry the girl I love next week."