As Barnes hurried through the little Dutch door on his way to see Langdon, he felt like an exchanged prisoner going to rejoin his colors. He was conscious of one big emotion—that of freedom. However slight the chances, so long as a man may fight, victory is at least within his grasp. Yet Barnes was neither confident nor even sanguine. His thoughts did not go so far as to speculate upon the result. It was enough that he need no longer remain passive.
His plan was simple. He would tell Langdon the whole story and claim the rights of which he had been deprived. He would claim the privilege of ignoring the engagement which had not yet been publicly announced, which had not as yet even been announced to her father, so far as it might restrict him in any honorable approach to the girl. He would make Langdon see that he did not do this presumptuously, but simply on the ground that he was entitled to fight for his pictures as Langdon fought for his symphonies. Eleanor would, of course, remain in ignorance of the agreement. She was unrestrained by any code and so could then choose, if at all, as her heart dictated.
Barnes found Langdon dressed and sitting in the sun before the house with his arm in a sling. He had lost both weight and color. He greeted Barnes with what seemed like a genuine welcome.
“I guess we’re all glad to see you back, Joe,” he said earnestly. “They’ve been devilish uneasy up at the other house without you.”
“I don’t wonder,” answered Barnes. “Some devilish queer things have been happening up there during these last few weeks.”
Carl glanced up quickly.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
Barnes sat down on the turf a little way from Langdon and stared at the saffron road. The tawny ribbon seemed such an integral part of all the strange occurrences of this last month that he turned to it now, as to a comrade, for help in explaining.
“In some ways,” he began, “because you’re an artist it makes it easier to tell you; but in other ways that fact makes it harder.”
Langdon leaned forward anxiously.