It brought nothing; and day after day disappointed him. More than a week passed: he was ill with suspense, but could take no step for setting his mind at rest. Then, as he sat one morning at his work in the architect's office, there arrived a telegram addressed to him—
"I must see you as soon as possible. Be here before six.—Narramore."
CHAPTER XXVI
"What the devil does this mean, Hilliard?"
If never before, the indolent man was now thoroughly aroused. He had an open letter in his hand. Hilliard, standing before him in a little office that smelt of ledgers and gum, and many other commercial things, knew that the letter must be from Eve, and savagely hoped that it was dated London.
"This is from Miss Madeley, and it's all about you. Why couldn't you speak the other day?"
"What does she say about me?"
"That she has known you for a long time; that you saw a great deal of each other in London; that she has led you on with a hope of marrying her, though she never really meant it; in short, that she has used you very ill, and feels obliged now to make a clean breast of it."
The listener fixed his eye upon a copying-press, but without seeing it. A grim smile began to contort his lips.