"Well!" he said coolly, "Miss Wardour tells you—what?"
"That my sister has run—away."
"Oh! Well, Lamotte, I am glad you know it. It's a hard story to tell a friend."
"So thought Constance, and she would give me no particulars, she told me," letting his hand fall from before his face, "to come to you."
"And why to me?" coldly.
"She said that you knew the particulars—that you brought her the news."
"True; I did. Still it's a hard story to tell, Lamotte."
"And no one will tell it more kindly, I know. Say on, Heath; don't spare me, or mind Vandyck's presence—I don't. I know that I must hear this thing, and I know that Ray is my friend. Go on, Heath; get it over soon."
Raymond Vandyck arose and walked to the window, standing with his back toward them while Doctor Heath, in a plain, straightforward, kindly manner, told the story of Sybil's flight, just as he had told it to Constance Wardour.
For a long time after the story was done, Lamotte lay with his face buried in his arms, silent and motionless, while young Vandyck stood like a graven image at his post by the window.