"Parlor B, Mr. Wray, but she told me to say that she did not want to be disturbed."
Jeff hesitated, and then, with a frown: "That doesn't matter," he growled. "I'll explain. I'm going up," and he made his way to the stairs.
The room, he remembered, was at the front of the house. He had occupied it before they built his sleeping quarters in the office building. He found the door readily and knocked, but there was no response. He knocked again. This time her voice inquired.
"It's Jeff, Camilla," he said. "I must see you at once. Let me in, please."
Another long pause of indecision. He might have been mistaken, but he fancied he could hear Rita Cheyne's light laugh somewhere down the corridor. He did not want a scene—as yet his and Camilla's misfortunes had not reached the ears of Mesa City. He was still debating whether he would knock again or go away when the key turned in the lock and the door was opened.
"Come in," said Camilla, and he entered. She had removed her hat, and the bed and pillow already bore traces of her weight.
"I'm sorry to intrude," he began awkwardly.
"Shut the door," she suggested. "Perhaps it's just as well that people here shouldn't know any more of our private affairs than is necessary."
He obeyed and turned the key in the lock. His wife had moved to the window and stood, very straight and pale, waiting for him to speak. She seemed, if anything, slimmer than when he had seen her last, and her hair, which had fallen loosely about her shoulders, was burnished with the last warm glow from Saguache Peak. He had never thought her more beautiful, but there were lines at her eyes and mouth which the growing shadows of the room made deeper.
"I suppose you're willing to believe the worst of me," he began, "and of her. Perhaps I ought to tell you first that she only came here this morning—that she's going away to-morrow——"