When he resumed the normal usages of life once more and reappeared downstairs, he found that the Brabazons and Lady Doreen Neville and her mother had all gone their several ways. They were the only people with whom he had any acquaintance, and in an odd, indefinable way he missed their presence. He spent almost all his time at the Casino, working out and experimenting with different systems. He had come to no decision as to how he should order his future life, and until he had formulated some scheme he found that he could only stop the hideous treadmill of his thoughts by focussing his whole attention on the crazy gyrations of the spinning ball.
And then one day, about a month later, a letter was put into his hand, bearing the Silverquay postmark. The writing was unfamiliar, and its unfamiliarity woke in him a sudden horrible fear and dread of what the letter might contain. Had some one written to tell him—what Ann could no longer write and tell him herself? He slit the envelope and his eyes raced down the lines of the sheet it had enclosed.
“Dear Mr. Coventry,” ran the letter, written in Lady Susan’s
characteristically big, generous hand. “Probably you’ll think me
an interfering old woman. I daresay I am. But try and remember that
I was young once and that just now I’m looking at life for you and
Ann through young eyes—and thinking what a long, weary lot of it
there is still to be lived through if you each remain at opposite
ends of the pole. The time will go a deal quicker if you are
together—it’s like dividing by two, you know.
“I hear you ran across Tony Brabazon in Mentone, and I think that
by now you probably know as much about what happened up at the
Dents de Loup as I or any one, and are probably cursing yourself.
Don’t. It’s a waste of time and happiness. Come to my party
instead.”
Attached to this characteristic document was a card of invitation to a dance to be given at White Windows by Lady Susan Hallett on February the seventh.... And to-day was the sixth! But it could be done. By travelling all night, catching the morning boat and then the midday train to Silverquay, Eliot realised that he could reach White Windows in time.
A bell stood on a table near by—one of those shiny metal bells with a button on the top which you press down sharply to induce the thing to ring. Eliot thumped it, and continued thumping till a half-demented waiter came flying towards him in response.
“Bring me a time-table,” he roared. “And bring it quick.”
CHAPTER XXVIII THE GREY SHADOW
The ball-room at White Windows was all in readiness for the forthcoming dance. The floor, waxed and polished till it was as smooth as a sheet of gleaming ice, caught and held the tremulous reflections of a hundred flickering lights, whilst from above, where the orchestra was snugly tucked away in the gallery behind a bank of flowers, came faint pizzicato sounds of fiddles tuning up, alternating with an occasional little flourish or tentative roulade of notes.