Jessup frowned gravely.
"Any news?" he asked guardedly.
Guessing what he meant, Varick shook his head. Jessup ruminated. Since that night, now months ago, when he had divulged to Varick Mr. Mapleson's history, the bookkeeper had felt thoroughly uncomfortable about it. Never in his life had he willingly harmed a fellow-creature; and with a deep human understanding of the circumstances he pitied Mr. Mapleson with all his heart. It was for Bab, not for himself, Jessup knew, that the little man had done what he had. And for that very reason, too, Bab now was on the bookkeeper's mind.
"She hasn't been here then?" he asked.
"No," returned Varick, "not yet."
Jessup, grunting, said no more. It was evident, though, that he had his own opinion of Bab. Hardly a flattering one apparently.
Varick, taking the tray from Lena, climbed the stairs to Mrs. Tilney's top floor. In the week that had passed since the afternoon when he had met Bab in the road at Eastbourne he had not seen her again, nor had he heard from her. But Mr. Mapleson had. The day Varick returned from Long Island a letter had come to him. It was after that that Mr. Mapleson had taken to his bed. It was a brief note, but brief though it was it had seemed to stun Mr. Mapleson. Even Varick had been dismayed.
"Good-by," Bab had written. "They tell me I must never see you again. I know everything and I forgive you. Good-by."
That same morning, on his way downtown in the subway, Varick had read in his paper an announcement that to him seemed to make everything clear.