"Back to the hotel," he said to the cabman, who obeyed willingly, while Neil, always on the alert, closed the windows lest he should he seen and recognized.
But the air was close and hot, and when he thought himself out of danger he drew the window down and looked out just in time to meet the eyes of Grey Jerrold who was driving in an opposite direction. There was an exclamation from Grey, a call for both cabmen to stop, and before Neil could collect his senses the two carriages were drawn up side by side and he was shaking hands with Grey through the window.
"So glad I happened to meet you," Grey said. "I wanted to say good-by, for I am off for America."
"America!" Neil repeated, and his lower jaw dropped suddenly, as if he had been seized with paralysis.
"Yes," Grey rejoined. "I sail in the Germanic with my Aunt Lucy. She came down to Liverpool yesterday with some friends. I shall find her at the wharf. I have just arrived in the train from Chester. I was only in London for a day, but I called at your house to see you, and learned that you were out of town, so I left a little note for you. Neil"—and Grey spoke very low, as we do when we speak of the dead—"I have been in Prussia, Austria, and Russia since I left Italy, but I know I ought to have written and told you how sorry I was for—for what happened in Rome. If it had not been for my aunt, I believe I should have gone back and helped you. I—"
Here Grey stopped, for since his interview with Jack Trevellian he had never mentioned Bessie's name to any one, and he could not do so now even to Neil, who, having no idea of the mistake under which Grey was laboring, and supposing he, of course, was referring to Daisy, replied with an indifference which made Grey's flesh creep:
"Yes, thanks; they told me how kind you were, and I ought to have written you, but I had so much to see to. I trust I may never go through the like again. Those landlords are perfect swindlers, the whole of them, and ought to be indicted."
He spoke excitedly, and Grey gazed at him in blank astonishment. Was he perfectly heartless that he could speak thus of an event, the mere remembrance of which made Grey's heart throb with anguish? Had he really no abiding love for Bessie, that he could speak thus of the trouble and expense her death had caused him? Grey could not tell, but he was never as near hating Neil McPherson, as he was that moment, and he felt a greater desire to thrash him than he had done at Melrose when the star-spangled banner was insulted.
He could not pursue the subject further, and he changed the conversation by speaking of Jack Trevellian, from whom he had not heard since he left him in Vienna, weeks before.
"I have written to him," he said, "but have received no answer. I have also written to Miss Meredith, with a like result, and conclude I have no friends this side the water, so I am going home."