"I shall go with you," he repeated, with an air of believing that no human power could possibly prevent it. And Judith, with a recollection of his recent amazing outburst of masterfulness, said no more.
He seized her hand when they were in the automobile, and she made no effort to withdraw it. But something told him that she was not even conscious that he held it. After a little, he released it. She had gone very far away from him again, he thought sadly, as he watched her staring wide-eyed out into the darkness. It seemed clear enough now where she had gone, but there was no less grief at the going, for the knowledge. The swing of Imrie's hope had reached its amplitude in those brief moments he had held her unresisting in his arms. It reached its lowest ebb on that silent ride to the home of his rival.
He noticed, as he turned also to stare out of the window, that boulevards were giving place to meaner streets. Car-tracks were more in evidence, and people, particularly children, more numerous. From the increased jolting, the change in the character of the pavements was obvious. For a little while they rolled down a very brightly lighted thoroughfare, lined with shops and moving-picture theatres, and crowded with vehicles and humanity. Then they turned into a street which was hardly lighted at all, lined with tall, narrow buildings, entered through steep, high porches. A few minutes later the car stopped.
Imrie followed Judith up the precipitous ascent to one of the tall, narrow buildings. Vaguely unpleasant odours assailed him even before the front door was opened.
"I would like to see Mr. Good," said Judith to the round-shouldered slattern who answered the bell. The latter nodded dubiously for a moment, before she disappeared down the dark and narrow hall. Imrie noticed that she limped as she walked, and that her underskirt showed on one side. From somewhere below a nauseous odour of stale cooking drifted up. It was reminiscent to him of schoolday cabbage and boiled things. He watched Judith in the huge mirror which hung to one side. It was cracked rather badly, and one of the corners of its finger-marked black frame had separated.
Presently a stout, red-faced woman with untidy hair, appeared from the passageway where the young girl had disappeared. She was using her apron to wipe alternately her hands and the perspiration which exuded copiously from her forehead. One of her eyes was slightly crossed, giving her a curious aspect, half comic, half malevolent.
"I would like to see Mr. Good, if I may," repeated Judith pleasantly, as she approached.
The stout woman raised her hand with a gesture of regret. "Pshaw now—you're too late."
"Too late?" echoed Judith, her voice trembling.
"Yiss, it's too bad, surely," said the woman calmly. "He died goin' on two days, it is."