No, Rodrigo concluded, he would have to go away—and stay away. Go away at any cost. Go away as soon as he decently could.
Having spent the day in the details of securing his baggage and unpacking it amid the familiar scenes of the Park Avenue apartment, he met John and had dinner with him at their favorite little French restaurant. Afterward, in the softly lighted living-room of the apartment, over their pipes they talked.
"I have been wondering," John said, "why you came back so suddenly, without warning us. I had been expecting a letter or cablegram for weeks. I had begun to worry about you. You left no forwarding address with me. And, of course, I would not have asked you to cut short your vacation anyway. Poor chap, you were tired out, and, to tell you the truth, you don't look particularly chipper now."
"I received a letter from Mary. She spoke of certain 'developments.'" Rodrigo said doggedly, anxious to have it over. "She urged me to return and talk with you."
John asked quietly, "Did she say what those 'developments' were?"
"No."
John smiled, "Wonderful, competent Mary! She insisted I write you to come back. I refused, because I felt you were coming soon anyway. She, strangely enough, was not so sure. So she wrote you herself? Well, perhaps she was wise."
"And the 'developments' she spoke of?" Rodrigo's voice sounded very small.
John tapped the ashes from his pipe, looked at his friend gravely. "Rodrigo," he said, "I have found out the truth about Elise."
Rodrigo started with the unexpectedness of the answer, a chaos of thoughts running suddenly riot within him.