"I hope nothing will," she said, by now quite alarmed by his tone. "Please tell me at once."
"I can't tell you here," he replied. "Would you mind coming into my room?"
She followed him, wondering.
They went into Flood's private room. It faced west, and the winter sun being now high in the heavens did not penetrate there at this hour. The fire was nearly out, only a few cinders glowed with their dull black and crimson on the hearth.
"How cheerless!" Mary said as she came into the room.
With a quick movement Aubrey Flood turned to the wall. There was a succession of little clicking noises, and then the electric light leaped up and the place was full of a dusky yellow radiance.
"That's better," he said in a curiously muffled voice, "though it's not right. Somehow I know it's not right. No, I am sure that it's not right!"
His voice rang with pain. His voice was full of melancholy and pain as he looked at her. Never, in all his stage triumphs in the mimic life he could portray so skilfully and well, had his mobile, sensitive voice achieved such a note of pain as now.
Suddenly Mary knew.
"What do you mean, Mr. Flood?" she said faintly.