He looked up and Dominick was suddenly aware that his face was charged with the tensest, the most vital interest. Thrust forward, it showed a hungriness of anticipation that was almost passionate. The young man was not only surprised at the expression but at the question.
“I haven’t an idea,” he said. “I wasn’t home to dinner last night, and didn’t get in till late. Why do you want to know?”
“For many reasons, or for one, perhaps—for one exceedingly important reason.”
He paused, his eyes again turned slantingly on the stick and gloves, his lips tight-pressed, one against the other.
“How did you know any woman came in here last night at that hour? Did you come up to call?” asked Dominick.
“No—no—” the other spoke with quick impatience evidently from the surface of his mind, “no, it was—at first, anyway—purely accidental. I saw the woman—and—and—afterward I saw her enter here. Mr. Ryan,” he said suddenly, looking at his vis-à-vis with piercing directness and speaking with an intensity of urgency that was almost a command, “can you give me half an hour of your time and your full attention? I want to speak to you of a matter, that to me, at least, is of great—the greatest—importance. You can help me; at least you can, I hope, throw some light on what is a dark subject. Have I your permission to talk freely to you, freely and at length?”
Dominick, who was beginning to feel as if he were in a play, and was exceedingly surprised and intrigued, nodded, remarking,
“Why, certainly, go on. If I can be of any help to you or explain anything for you, nothing would give me greater pleasure. Let me hear what it is.”
The actor dropped his glance to the floor for what seemed an anxiously-considering moment, then he raised his head and, looking directly at his host, said,
“You may remember that, while at Antelope, I once spoke to you of having been married—of having, in fact, been unfortunate enough to lose my wife.”