“If I’m not mistaken,” said Dutch to himself, as he climbed to his stool, “there’s somebody there to heal the sore place in poor Bessy’s heart. Poor girl! If I was not coxcombical to say so, I should think she really was fond of me. There, come forth, little loadstone,” he said, with a look of intense love lighting up his countenance, and raising the lid of his desk he took from a drawer a photographic carte of his wife, and set it before him, to gaze at it fondly.
“I don’t think I could have cared for Bessy Studwick, darling, even if there had been no Hester in the world.”
As he gazed tenderly at the little miniature of his wife’s features, there seemed to come a peculiar look in the eyes—the expression on the face became one of pain.
He knew it was fancy, but he gazed on at the picture till his imagination took a wider leap, and as if it were quite real, so real that in his disturbed state he could not have declared it untrue, he saw Hester seated in their own room, with every object around clearly defined, her head bent forward, and the Cuban kneeling at her feet, and pressing her hands to his lips.
So real was the scene that he started away from the desk with a loud cry, oversetting his stool, and letting the heavy desk lid fall with a crash.
In a moment Rasp ran into the office, armed with a heavy diver’s axe, and then stood staring in amazement.
“Is any one gone mad?” he growled.
“It was nothing, Rasp,” said Dutch, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
“I never heard nothing make such a row as that afore,” growled Rasp.
And then, putting the axe down, he made for the poker, had a good stoke at the fire, and went out muttering.