“When did she leave?” he asked in a harsh voice.
The liveryman regarded him sympathetically.
“By the afternoon East-bound. I’m mighty sorry, Cyril—guess you know it isn’t a secret in the town.”
Jernyngham’s face grew darkly flushed.
“Then you can tell me whom she went with?”
“The drummer who was selling the separators. Bought tickets through to St. Paul. Told Perkins he wasn’t coming back here; nothing doing on this round.”
The man tactfully moved away and Jernyngham turned to Prescott, speaking rather hoarsely.
“She’s gone—that’s the end of it!”
He dropped into one of the chairs scattered about and a few moments later broke into a bitter laugh.
“It would have been more flattering if she had chosen you or Wandle instead of that blasted weedy drummer. Still, there the thing is, and it has to be faced.” Then he surprised his companion, for his voice and expression became suddenly normal. “Go in and get me a cigar.”