Diana went away to write her letter, while Max remained pacing thoughtfully up and down the room, tapping restlessly with his fingers on his chest as he walked. His face showed signs of fatigue—the hard work in connection with the production of his play was telling on him—and since the brief interview with his wife, a new look of anxiety, an alert, startled expression, had dawned in his eyes.
He seemed to be turning something over in his mind as he paced to and fro. At last, apparently, he came to a decision.
"I'll do it," he said aloud. "It's a possible chance of silencing her."
He made his way downstairs, pausing at the door of the library, where
Diana was poring over her letter to Joan.
"I find I must go out again," he said. "But I shall be back in time for dinner."
Diana looked up in dismay.
"But you've had no tea, Max," she protested.
"Can't stay for it now, dear."
He dropped a light kiss on her hair and was gone, while Diana, flinging down her pen, exclaimed aloud:—
"It's that woman again! I know it is! She's rung him up!"