A vision rose before him; a vision of a ruddy head and snowy shoulders, on which the green light flashed and waned. He saw Cornelia, as she had appeared, sitting in the front row of the stalls at the theatre, and mentally clasped the necklace round her throat.
The door opened. He thrust the vision aside, and wheeled round quickly, reassuming his sternest expression. A dejected little girl stood on the threshold, with dishevelled locks and tear-stained eyes, and as he stared in amazement, she quietly closed the door, and collapsed in a limp little heap on the corner of the sofa.
“I’ve—come back!”
“Where’s Mrs Moffatt?”
“She’s”—the voice broke in a strangled sob—“gone!”
“Gone where?”
“Gone away. Ten minutes ago. She’s ever so far off by now!”
Guest stood still, transfixed with anger and astonishment.
“Do you mean to say that she escaped before your eyes? What happened? Did you leave her alone in your room?”
“No; I told her to go. I sent her away. It was my suggestion from the start.”