"Where is Mrs. Heriot?" he said to the servant who appeared in response to his ring.
"Mrs. Heriot has gone out of town, sir."
"Out of town!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean?"
"Mrs. Heriot left a note for you, sir, to explain. There it is, sir."
Heriot took it from the mantelpiece quickly; but still he had no suspicion—not an inkling of the truth. He tore the envelope open and read, while the maid waited respectfully by the door.
"Your mistress has been called away," he said when he had finished; "illness! She will be gone some time."
His back was to her; he could command his voice, but his face was beyond his control. He felt that if he moved he would reel, perhaps fall. He stood motionless, with the letter open in his hand.
"Shall I serve dinner, sir?"
"Yes, serve dinner, Odell; I'm quite ready."
When the door closed, it was his opportunity to gain the chair; he walked towards it slowly, like a blind man. The letter that he held had left but one hope possible—the last hope of despair—to keep the matter for awhile from the servants' knowledge. As yet he was not suffering acutely; indeed, in these early moments, the effect of the shock was more physical than mental. There was a trembling through his body, and his head felt queerly light—empty, not his own.