Though he was now an old man, his limbs had not lost all their suppleness, and after a moment of hesitation he sprang to his door and opened it.
Yes! He could hear the firm tread of footsteps coming down the corridor towards him, to his left.
He flung his door wide open, and into the stream of light thrown by his powerful reading lamp into the corridor, there suddenly appeared Oliver Tropenell——
For a flashing moment the tall figure loomed out of the darkness, and then was engulfed again....
Lord St. Amant shut the door and hurried back to the fireplace. He cursed the impulse, bred half of genuine alarm, half of eager curiosity, which had made him the unwilling sharer in another man's—and woman's—secret.
Laura? Laura?—Laura? He was so taken aback, so surprised, so utterly astounded, and yes, so shocked, that for a moment he forgot the terrible thing which had now filled his mind without ceasing for so many hours. Then it came back, a thousand-fold more vivid and accusing.
Laura? Good God, how mistaken he had been in her! Manlike, he told himself, most unfairly, that somehow what he had now learnt made everything—anything possible.
But before he had time to sit down, the door opened again, and Oliver Tropenell walked into the room.
"I wish you to know," he began, without any preamble, "that Laura and I were married a week ago in London. She wished to wait—in fact it had been arranged that we should wait—till February or March. But to please me—only to please me, St. Amant—she put her own wishes, her own scruples aside. If there is any blame—the blame is entirely, entirely mine." He waited a moment, and then went on rapidly:
"As far as the rest of the world—the indifferent world—is concerned, it will believe that Laura and I were married when of course we should have been, after Godfrey Pavely had been dead a year. But Laura would like my mother to know. In fact she intends, I believe, to tell my mother to-morrow."