He forgot the message he had sent for Pluma and Rex––forgot the shrinking, timid little figure in the shadowy drapery of the curtains––even the gay hum of the voices down below, and the strains of music, or that the fatal marriage moment was drawing near.
He was wondering if the detective’s visit brought him a gleam of hope. Surely he could have no other object in calling so hurriedly on this night above all other nights.
A decanter of wine always sat on the study table. He 185 turned toward it now with feverish impatience, poured out a full glass with his nervous fingers, and drained it at a single draught.
A moment later the detective and John Brooks, looking pale and considerably excited, were ushered into the study.
For a single instant the master of Whitestone Hall glanced into the detective’s keen gray eyes for one ray of hope, as he silently grasped his extended hand.
“I see we are alone,” said Mr. Tudor, glancing hurriedly around the room––“we three, I mean,” he added.
Suddenly Basil Hurlhurst thought of the young girl, quite hidden from view.
“No,” he answered, leading the way toward an inner room, separated from the study by a heavy silken curtain; “but in this apartment we shall certainly be free from interruption. Your face reveals nothing,” he continued, in an agitated voice, “but I believe you have brought me news of my child.”
Basil Hurlhurst had no idea the conversation carried on in the small apartment to which he had conducted them could be overheard from the curtained recess in which Daisy sat. But he was mistaken; Daisy could hear every word of it.
She dared not cry out or walk forth from her place of concealment lest she should come suddenly face to face with Rex.