"I suppose my mother is expecting me, Hewitt."
"I think not, Sir Karl. I took a telegram to the station this morning, sir, to stop your coming," he added in a confidential tone, as he opened the door to announce his master.
Mrs. Andinnian was dining in solitary state in the solitary
dining-room. She let fall her knife and fork, and rose up with an angry glare. Her dress was of the deepest mourning, all crape. Save the widow's cap, she had not put on mourning so deep for her husband as she wore for her ill-fated son.
"How did you dare to come, after my prohibitory telegram, Karl?" she exclaimed, imperiously.
"I have had no telegram from you, mother," was his reply. "None whatever."
"One was sent to you this morning."
"I missed it, then. I have been about London all day, and did not return to the hotel before coming here."
He had been standing close to her with his hand extended. She looked fixedly at him for a few moments, and then allowed her hand to meet his.
"It cannot be helped, now; but I am not well enough to entertain visitors," she remarked. "Hewitt, Sir Karl will take some dinner."
"You surely do not look on me as a visitor," he said, smiling, and taking the chair at table that Hewitt placed. But, for all the smile, there was pain at his heart. "My stay will be a very short one, mother," he added, "for I must be away long before dawn to-morrow morning."