But how was it all to end?—that was what tormented him. His conscience shrank from the half-perceived villainies before him; but his will failed him. What was the use of talking? He was the slave of an impulse, which was not passion, which had none of the excuse of passion, but represented rather the blind search of a man who, like a child in the dark, recoils in reckless terror from loneliness and the phantoms of his own mind.
Eleven o'clock struck. He was busying himself with a cardboard model, on which he had been trying the effect of certain arrangements, when he heard a knock at his door.
'Entrez!' he said, in astonishment.
At this season of the year the hotel kept early hours, and there was not a light to be seen in the cour.
The door opened. On the threshold stood Arthur Welby. Fenwick gazed at him open-mouthed.
'You?—you came to see me?'
He advanced, head foremost, hand outstretched.
'I have something important to say to you.' Welby took no notice of the hand. 'Shall we be undisturbed?'
'I imagine so!' said Fenwick, fiercely retreating; 'but, as you see, I am extremely busy!' He pointed to the room and its contents.
'I am sorry to interrupt you'—Welby's voice was carefully controlled—'but I think you will admit that I had good reason to come and find you.' He looked round to see that the door was shut, then advanced a step nearer. 'You are, I think, acquainted with that lady?'