Helen could not hope for peace of mind until she was back in Brompton Square. And soon after half past eight, as she crossed the hall to the car which was to take her to the station, with every thought fixed upon getting away from this hive of unpleasant memories, a simple thing happened which yet seemed to add tenfold to her fears.
Wygram, who was just coming down to breakfast, intercepted her at the foot of the stairs. “Good-by, my dear Mrs. Endor,” he said, in a cordial tone. And then in one much lower, but of vital urgency, “Take care of your husband. The world has need of him. And if in the course of the next few days you feel you must have a friend whom you can really trust, please remember your compatriot, George Hierons, who, I believe, is still in London. It may be, of course, that the need will not arise. Sincerely one hopes it may not. But if it does, consult him. Again, good-by!”
These cryptic words did not lessen Helen’s alarm. More than ever she was convinced that something had happened or was about to happen to the man she loved.
XLVIII
IT was within a few minutes of one o’clock when Helen reached Brompton Square. Of the maid who opened the door she inquired eagerly for Mr. Endor.
The fever of her mind was such that it felt a keen relief from the mere fact of John being in his room at work. She flew to him. But the feeling of joy left her the moment she entered the room. He was pacing heavily up and down in a way that brought to her mind a wild animal in a cage. His hands were clenched behind him, and his eyes, rather weird in their intensity, lent a look of strangeness to a haggard face.
So strong was the thrall upon him that even Helen’s sudden appearance in the room did not cause him to throw it off. She could hardly bear to see his face. It was that of a man whose nerves had been deranged by the sight of a ghost. Indeed, when he stopped at last and turned towards Helen, there was something in that face which seemed to drive the blood from her heart.
“Darling!” she gasped as her hands clasped his coat, “tell me—tell me what is the matter? Why do you look like that? What awful thing has happened?”
He did not answer. She repeated the question with a tenser anxiety. “What is the matter? Do tell me!”
It was impossible for him to do so. In the urgency of the moment he did what he could to keep back the truth. But at the best, it was a lame, clumsy, half-hearted effort.