'No need,' said Fenwick, interrupting him. 'I shall see her first thing in the morning—'
'And'—resumed Welby, lifting a book and letting it fall uncertainly—'if there is anything I can do—with Lord Findon—for instance—'
Fenwick had a movement of impatience. He felt his endurance giving way.
'There is nothing to do!—except to tell the truth—and to as few people as possible!'
Welby winced. Was the reference to his wife?
'I agree with you—of course.'
He paused a moment—irresolute—wondering whether he had said all he had to say. Then, involuntarily, his eyes rested questioningly, piercingly, on the man beside him. They seemed to express the marvel of his whole being that such an offence could ever be—they tried to penetrate a character, a psychology which in truth baffled them altogether.
He moved to the door, and Fenwick opened it.
As his visitor walked away, Fenwick stood motionless, listening to the retreating step, which echoed in the silence of the vast, empty hotel, once the house of Madame de Pompadour.
He looked at his watch. Past midnight. By about three o'clock, in the midst of a wild autumnal storm, he had finished his letter to Madame de Pastourelles; and he fell asleep at his table, worn out, his head on his arms.