Ogilvie went up to Sibyl. Suffering and love had taught him many lessons, amongst others those of absolute self-control. His face was smiling and calm as he crossed the room, bent over the child and kissed her. Those blue eyes of hers, always so full of penetration and of knowledge, which was not all this earth, could detect no sorrow in her father’s.
“I must go to town, I shall be away for as short a time as possible. As soon as I come back I will come to you,” he said. “Look after her, please, Miss Winstead. If you cannot remain in the room, send nurse. Now, don’t tire yourself, my little love. Remember that father will be back very soon.”
“Don’t hurry, father darling,” replied Sibyl “’cos I am quite happy thinking about you, even if you are not here.”
He went away, ran downstairs, put on his hat and went out. His wife was standing in the porch.
“One moment, Phil,” she called, “where are you going?”
“To town.”
“To do what?”
“To do what I said,” he answered, and he gave her a strange look, which frightened her, and caused her to fall back against the wall.
He disappeared down the avenue, she sank into a chair and began to weep. She was thoroughly miserable and frightened. Philip had returned, but all pleasant golden dreams were shattered, for although he had sent a cablegram to Lord Grayleigh, saying that all was well, better than well, his conscience was speaking to him, that troublesome terrible conscience of his, and he was about to destroy his own work.