Tennelly was pacing up and down the room. His face was white, his eyes were wild. He had the haggard look of one who has come through a long series of harrowing experiences up to the supreme torture where there is nothing worse that can happen.
Courtland's knock brought him at once to the door. With both hands they gave the fellowship grip that had meant so much to each in college.
A moment they stood so, looking into each other's eyes, Courtland, wondering, startled, questioning. It was Gila, of course! Nothing else could reach the man's soul and make him look like that! But what had happened? Not death! No, not even death could bring that look of shame and degradation to his high-minded friend's eyes.
As if Tennelly had read his question he spoke in a voice so husky with emotion that his words were scarcely audible: "Didn't Pat tell you?"
Courtland shook his head.
Tennelly's head went down, as if he were waiting for courage to speak. Then, huskily: "She's gone, Court!"
"Gone?"
"Left me, Court! She sailed at daybreak for Italy with another man."
Tennelly fumbled in his pocket and brought out a crumpled note, blistered with tears. "Read it!" he muttered, and turned away to the window.
Courtland read: