The very next afternoon found Mr Dunstan standing at the door of the Marths’ house in London.
“Is Lady Hebe at home?” he inquired at once when it was opened, glancing up with some anxiety as he asked the question.
But nothing was to be learned from the man-servant’s impassive face, though—yes, it was surely unusually grave, for Archie was no stranger to him.
Her ladyship was at home, he replied, and expecting Mr Dunstan. For Archie had telegraphed that he would call at a certain hour.
Then he was ushered up-stairs to Hebe’s own little sitting-room, where many a happy half-hour had been spent by the circle of young “old friends.”
“Well, Hebe,” he said, as the door closed behind him, “here I am. I only got Norman’s letter yesterday afternoon, for I have been out of town for a few days. What an age it is since I have seen you!”
He had hardly as yet noticed her face, for the room was very dark; but as she came forward, holding out her hand, he almost started. She was unusually pale.
“You’ve not been ill, have you?” he said. “Its surely not that that has been the matter?”
“Then Norman did tell you something was the matter?” were her first words. “No, I have not been ill, at least not exactly. But, sit down, Archie, dear; I’ve a good deal to tell you.”
The young man drew a chair near her—she sat with her head to the light—with a feeling of increasing uneasiness.