"And will Mr. Michael return to-day, sir?"
Wentworth remembered some old, old prehistoric arrangement by which Michael was to have come back with him to Barford this afternoon.
"No," he said, the room suddenly darkening till the sunshine on the floor was barely visible. "No. He is not coming back."
The man hesitated a moment, and then left the room.
Wentworth groped for the flagon of whiskey, poured out a quantity, and drank it raw. Then he waited for the nightmare to lift.
His mind cleared gradually. His scattered faculties came sneaking back like defeated soldiers to camp. But they had all one tale of disaster and one only to tell. He must needs believe them.
Michael had tried to kill him. Whatever else shifted that remained true.
Wentworth bowed his stiffening head upon his hands, and the sweat ran down his face.
Michael had tried to kill him, and had all but succeeded. Oh! if only he had quite succeeded. If only his life had not come back to him! He had died and died hard in that little room. And yet here he was still alive and in agony.
Michael first. That thought was torture. Then Fay. That thought was torture. The woman he had so worshipped, on whom he had lavished a wealth of love, far greater than most men have it in them to bestow, had deceived him, had been willing to be his brother's mistress.