The man did not known him; but, being a well-trained servant, he made, as he thought, a shrewd guess at the truth.
“Surely you are not Mr. Willard, sir?” he said respectfully.
“Yes, I am.” Simple words enough; yet their utterance demanded a tremendous effort.
“Ah, there has been some mistake, sir,” came the ready theory. “Mrs. Marten meant to meet you in New York, and had arranged to travel by the nine o’clock train this morning; but Mr. Power made an early call—you know Mr. Power, sir?”
“Yes—yes.”
“He seemed to have some information about you, sir, which caused Mrs. Marten to hurry away before seven. There has been a sad blunder, I’m sure. What a pity! But if you know what hotel Mrs. Marten will stay at, you can fix matters by a telegram within a couple of hours.... Aren’t you well, sir? Can I get you anything? Some brandy?”
By some occult process of thought, Willard, though stupefied by rage and dread—for he never doubted for a second that Nancy had flown with Power—held fast to the one tangible idea that her household was ignorant, as yet, of the social tornado which had burst on Newport that morning. Could anything be done to avert its havoc? God! He must have time to recover his senses! While choking with passion, he must be dumb and secret as the grave! A false move now, the least slip of a tongue aching to rain curses on Power, and irretrievable mischief would be done. Small wonder, then, that the butler mistook his pallid fury for illness.
“Won’t you come into the morning-room, and sit down, sir?” inquired the man sympathetically.
“Yes, take me anywhere—I’m dead beat. I’ve been traveling for days in this damned heat.... No! no brandy, thank you. A glass of water. Mrs. Marten expected me, you say?”
“Yes, sir—at New York.”