"I only came to tell you because Mrs. Sheppard is out, too."
Obviously Enid was determined that if Pyne's calculations were worth anything they should have fair play.
"Oh," he commented sharply, "but the maid is in?"
"Yes. She is such a stupid girl in some things. If—if our guest rings you will hear her. Would you mind asking Mary what it is in case she gets muddled?"
He glanced at her. She was pulling on her gloves, and vastly bothered by a refractory button.
"If I hear the bell, I will inquire," he said, and she escaped, feeling quite wicked.
When he was alone, he did not resume his task. In the next room, separated from him only by a brick wall, was his wife. A wall! Why should there always be a wall between them? It was not of his building. Had she made it impassable during the long years? And what would be the outcome, now that Constance was in daily communion with her mother? The doctor, in kindly ignorance, had told him that Mrs. Vansittart was convalescent and would be able to travel in a few days. In response to a question, the doctor added that the lady herself asked when she might be moved.
What was her plan? Mr. Traill, that day, had written him a sympathetic letter, mentioning the fact that Mrs. Vansittart had voluntarily rescinded her promise to marry him, and, indeed, judged by the light of present knowledge, had determined on that course since she first knew that her former husband was living.
Suddenly Brand pushed back his chair from the desk at which he sat.
"The young dog!" he growled. He had in fact followed the exact mental process which Pyne mapped out for him. The letter, the drive, Mrs. Sheppard's absence, Enid's uneasy wriggling at the door, were all parts of an ordered plan. He was to be given an opportunity of seeing his wife and disentangling the twisted strands of twenty years. He rose impatiently, and paced the room, quietly withal, lest the woman in the next room should hear him. A decision had been forced on him. He could shirk it no longer.