The impudent chug-chug of a runabout broke in upon his troubled thought, and he turned to the hall just as the housemaid appeared on the stairs.
“Agnes, I’m going to my room. Mr. Millard has just brought Mr. Holworthy up from the station, I think. Send Mr. Holworthy up to me, but tell Mr. Millard I’ll call him on the ’phone later. I can’t see him now.”
“Yes, sir.” Agnes sniffed and lowered her red-lidded eyes. “The other gentlemen——?”
“They’re still here. Let me know, please, when they want me.”
She stepped aside and he passed her, mounting to his room. It was in order, and with rare tact the girl had left the door leading to Leila’s apartments closed; yet as plainly as though it were open Storm could see before him every intimate detail: the little silver articles on the dressing table, the quaint old four-poster bed which had been his mother’s, the absurdly low chairs piled with cushions, Leila’s favorite books scattered about——
A sudden dizziness seized him; the same sickening qualm which had assailed him that morning when he entered the den swept over him in an overwhelming flood. He had been keyed up since with the need of self-preservation, but now a swift reaction came, and he flung himself into a chair, his head buried in his arms outflung across the table. He had killed her, and she deserved it; she had been faithless! It was done and over with, and yet——!
Her presence seemed nearer him, the years of their love and life together rose before him, and something very like a dry, harsh sob burst from his throat.
“Norman! God, it isn’t true! It can’t be!”
The broken cry from the doorway fell like a dash of icy water on his rising emotion, and instantly on guard once more, Storm raised his head.
George Holworthy stood there, his homely face working grotesquely, tears starting unashamed from his faded blue eyes.