“Certainly you may have it,” I replied, and I handed her the parchment.
Regnier left the house with John and me. We walked in silence to the corner where Regnier turned off. As we parted, he hesitated for a moment.
“You were strangely right in your surmise, Mr. Orrington,” he said slowly. “I am very glad to have been present at so curious an event.”
“Queer chap Regnier,” said John musingly, as we watched the retreating form. “Clever scientist and good fellow, but queer. I hope he’ll never get Dorothy Haldane. She wouldn’t be happy with him.”
My heart sank like lead. “Do you think there’s much chance that he will?” I queried anxiously.
“To tell the truth,” answered John slowly, “I don’t know.” We had come by this time to the door of John’s hotel. “I’m not going to ask you up to-night, Jim,” he said, “I’m utterly fagged out and exhausted. Besides, I must get off early in the morning. So good-night and good-bye both.”
He paused and I could see the muscles of his face twitching and his hands nervously clasping. He went on with a rush, “Don’t forget me while I’m gone, old man, will you? Remember our commencement night when we walked up Riverside, and talked of the great future lying before us? Of all I cared for then, not one remains except yourself. Of all the health and vigor I had then, only a shred is left. I shall not see you for two years anyway. There’s nobody left to write to me. Don’t forget me. Drop me a line occasionally, care Barings, will you?”
With such an intensity of pleading came the last words that I was shaken despite myself. “Write you? I guess I will,” I cried. “Don’t you worry about that.” We grasped hands and parted.