That same night, Arthur Seaham called on Eugene Trevor at the hotel, in which he had easily ascertained the latter to be established.
He did not entertain much hope of finding him at home at that hour, but purposed proceeding there to demand an interview the following day. He was more fortunate than he expected.
He was told that Mr. Trevor was in the house, and it was not a little in Eugene's favour (in the brother's eyes) that he found him seated in a private room in the hotel, plunged in melancholy meditation, over the remains of a solitary dinner.
He looked up a little startled and surprised, when the name of his visitor was announced; but immediately arose, and shook hands cordially with the young man, expressing his pleasure at seeing him again. Then when the waiter, who staid to clear the table, had withdrawn and closed the door, and Arthur, who had replied to his greeting with somewhat of distant gravity, had seated himself silently on an opposite chair, Trevor at once, with eyes a little averted, said:
"Seaham, I can well guess what business has brought you here to-night. You come, of course, to speak upon the subject of your sister."
"I have come to-night, from my sister," was the calm, but somewhat emphasized reply.
"Indeed!" with a nervous uncertainty in his tone, which had not been perceptible in his former utterance. "She, Mary, told you, I suppose, of that most wretched meeting this afternoon."
"She did," Arthur Seaham again coldly replied; "and it was the nature of that meeting which made her desirous to communicate with you, through me, feeling herself unequal to treat the subject, as fully and satisfactorily as she had wished, by letter."
He again paused; and Trevor fixed his eyes upon the young man's face in anxious, agitated inquiry.