“My dear fellow, I am so sorry, and I have been troubling you with my nonsense. Forgive me. There, you wish to be alone. Good-bye.”
A few seconds later, Mr. Alston and Jeremy, from their point of vantage on the verandah, saw Ernest coming with swift strides up the garden-path. His face was drawn with pain, and there was a fleck of blood upon his lip. He passed them without a word, and, entering the house, slammed the door of his own room. Mr. Alston and Jeremy looked at one another.
“What’s up?” said the laconic Jeremy.
Mr. Alston thought a while before he answered, as was his fashion.
“Something gone wrong with ‘the ideal,’ I should say,” he said at length; “that is the way of ideals.”
“Shall we go and see?” said Jeremy, uneasily.
“No, give him a minute or two to pull himself together. Lots of time for consolation afterwards.”
Meanwhile Ernest, having got into his room, sat down upon the bed, and again read the note which was enclosed in Florence’s letter. Then he folded it up and put it down, slowly and methodically. Next he opened the other letter, which he had not yet looked at, and read that too. After he had done it he threw himself face downwards on the pillow, and thought a while. Presently he arose, and, going to the other side of the room, took down a revolver case which hung to a nail, and drew out a revolver, which was loaded. Returning, he again sat down upon the bed, and cocked it. So he remained for a minute or two, and then slowly lifted the pistol towards his head. At that moment he heard footsteps approaching, and, with a quick movement, threw the weapon under the bed. As he did so Mr. Alston and Jeremy entered.
