A quarter of an hour later, Evarne, pale yet supremely beautiful in her blush-rose gown, in her turn mounted the stairs. As she came in sight of the front door of the flat she saw that it stood wide open. From it was wafted faintly a piteous sound of sobbing and wailing.
"I suppose some will mourn Morris. I did not remember that," she reflected, as she entered and closed the front door behind her. Then, making her way across the hall to the studio, she went in, inquiring in splendidly feigned surprise and alarm, "What is the matter? What has happened?"
Poor Pallister was lying prostrate on the floor near the window, his hands, flung over his head, convulsively grasping great masses of fur that he had torn from the bearskin rug by which he lay. His whole body was writhing beneath choking, rending sobs. From him, Evarne slowly turned her gaze on Jack, who was seated near the couch. He, too, was shaking violently from head to foot; but as regards fixity of expression, hue and voluntary action, he might have been a figure of despair cut from marble.
A sudden pain darted through Evarne's brow. Unnerved by the display of such unexpected and unrestrained emotion, she was forced to lean against the side of the doorway for support, while her white face grew paler still.
"What—oh, I—what?"
None responded to her incoherent words. A cold chill encircled her. In the hot studio she shivered as in wintry weather.
"What has happened to Lord Winborough? Oh—where's? I want him quickly. I must see him, I tell you. Where is he?"
Jack rose from his chair.
"Go away—go away!" he breathed. "I—I can't—you mustn't know. Go away!"