And then for a space she felt herself at a loss in this new turn of affairs. She felt the instant need of the guidance of some one near to her. Clifford? No, she would have nothing to do with him now. Her brother Slant-Face? But her present situation was not the sort in which the skill of her brother, whom discretion had necessitated her neglecting, could possibly avail her. And then she thought of Uncle George. He was her friend, he would understand her; and no one could give more shrewd counsel, could plan more cunningly, than this urbane old master of the follies of the world and of the stratagems by which the world could be made to believe his wishes to be its own inborn desires. Yes, she would call in Uncle George.
And then, suddenly, she had a different vision of her situation. For the present, at least, she must act alone. She arose quickly. These questions that had been so prompt to ask themselves, those dangers that had presented themselves so vividly, they indeed pressed her sorely; but most pressing of all, she decided, was that she should move from here where all could find her to some obscure hotel, where she might remain undiscovered for a few days and have time in which to plan and act. She ordered the trunks up; and at once, with the help of her maid, she set about the packing, which was quickly finished since she and Jack had brought nothing to this richly furnished apartment except their clothes. All her own things for which she would have an early need she put into one steamer trunk and a bag.
She had changed into a traveling-suit, had paid and sent away her maid, and was standing in the hall of the apartment watching the baggageman tag the trunks and taking from him the claim checks, when the apartment door opened and in stepped Jack.
He stared at Mary, at the trunks, at the change that had been made in their brief home since he had left it two hours before. But he stood quietly at one side, until the baggageman had shuffled into the corridor with a trunk humped upon his shoulders.
“Mary, what does this mean?” he demanded sharply.
“I’m just leaving; I haven’t time to tell you now. I’ll write you or telephone you.”
She started past him, but he caught her arm. “Mary, I’m going to know this now! And I’m going to understand everything else!”
He was white, and so wrought up with excitement that she perceived that whatever problems she might be facing, the most pressing and the most dangerous was the barely suppressed frenzy of the young man before her—which frenzy, if not controlled and insulated, might bring about an explosion and cause half a dozen other explosions. “Come on,” she said, and led the way from the stack of trunks through the drawing-room, so recently the scene of unforgettable drama, into the study, where there was a heavy door that gave privacy and in which minor explosions could take place unheard. Jack closed the door, and stood with his back against it—a tense, white, haggard figure, made to seem all the more haggard by the contrast of the unemotional formality of evening clothes.
“I was at dinner with father and Maisie Jones—she’s the girl they want to marry me to—and a few others, but I managed to give them the slip!” he said rapidly, by way of explaining his presence. “Tell me”—his burning eyes were fixed on her—“what do those trunks mean?”
She told him the truth; not the whole of it, but what she did tell was true enough.