Ida danced with Arthur Hollis, and the tongues of the gossips wagged. If Eugene Mallard heard, he paid no heed. Strange thoughts were passing through his mind.
All unmindful of what Eugene Mallard had to say to his wife, Arthur Hollis danced with her, and hovered more closely than ever by her side.
He was growing desperate. His stay was drawing to a close. He meant to make the most of the few hours of sunshine and happiness before he turned his back on all that made life worth the living.
At the finish of one of the dances a messenger-boy was seen approaching with a telegram.
"For Mr. Arthur Hollis," he called.
Mechanically Arthur held out his hand. It was a dispatch requiring his immediate presence in Baltimore to attend to some urgent business.
"Have you bad news?" asked Ida, turning to him; for she saw his face had grown very pale.
"Yes—no," he answered, incoherently, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "I must go away." He did not look at her as he uttered the words. "I must go within the hour," he said, huskily. "Come down by the brook where we have passed so many happy hours. I should like to say good-bye to you there."
For a moment she hesitated; then seeing the sorrowful look on his face, she quietly allowed him to lead her down the path toward the brook.
In silence they walked through the sunshine, heedless that there were two pairs of eyes following them—Vivian Deane's from one part of the grounds, and Eugene Mallard's from another.