At last he heard it. He turned the paper, with a loud rustle, to the continuation of the kidnapping case as she entered the room. He did not even look up. He appeared to be absorbed in the paper.
Sylvia closed the hall door behind her noiselessly; then she crossed the room and closed the door leading into the dining-room. Henry watched her with furtive eyes. He was horribly dismayed without knowing why. When Sylvia had the room completely closed she came close to him. She extended her right hand, and he saw that it contained a little sheaf of yellowed newspaper clippings pinned together.
“Henry Whitman,” said she.
“Sylvia, you are as white as a sheet. What on earth ails you?”
“Do you know what has happened?”
Henry's eyes fell before her wretched, questioning ones. “What do you mean, Sylvia?” he said, in a faint voice.
“Do you know that Mr. Allen and Rose have come to an understanding and are going to get married?”
Henry stared at her.
“She has just told me,” said Sylvia. “Here I have done everything in the world I could for her to make her contented.”
“Sylvia, what on earth makes you feel so? She is only going to do what every girl who has a good chance does—what you did yourself.”