Spring advanced, and with returning strength Storm’s nerves steadied; and, secure in the knowledge that his guilt was buried forever, he took up the daily round once more.
A week after the funeral, he returned to his sinecure at the offices of the Mammoth Trust Company. The neighbors, possibly because of George’s forewarning, had left him considerately alone in the interim, but now as he stood on the station platform awaiting his customary train for the city, the ubiquitous Millard advanced beaming.
“By Jove, this is good, old chap! Glad you are getting back into the harness again; best thing for you!” he exclaimed. “Fine weather we’re having now, and the course is in wonderful condition; never better! I’m in topping form, if I do say it myself; and I haven’t missed a day.”
Despite his volubility, there was an odd constraint in his manner, and Storm eyed him curiously. Could it be a latent suspicion?
“You’ll be going in for the tournament?” he enquired briefly.
“Surest thing you know! Too bad you——” Millard caught himself up. “I say, though, why don’t you get up early now and then and play a round or two with me before breakfast? Nobody else out then, it would do you no end of good. How about to-morrow?”
Storm shook his head, checking the shudder which came involuntarily at the suggestion.
“Thanks, but I’m not quite up to it. I think I’ll let golf alone for a while,” he replied, adding hastily as he saw signs of remonstrance in the other’s face, “I’ve got too much to do, reinvestments to make and that sort of thing.”
“Of course,” Millard nodded. “You’ll have your hands full, but you would find that an occasional round would set you up wonderfully. Nothing like it to straighten you out and take your mind off things. Just ’phone me if you feel like it any day, old chap, and I’ll join you.”
The appearance of several belated fellow-commuters saved Storm from the necessity of a reply, and as they came up to greet him he eyed each in turn furtively.