“Very well, I will go through with the ceremony,” he said, and Mrs. Meredith had difficulty in restraining an exclamation. Hollister read rightly the relief in her eyes and smiled. He had no love for the handsome widow. She rose at once.
“You will not regret your decision, Doctor Curtis,” she said, and turned to Hollister. “Will you tell John?”
“If he is awake, yes; if not, the news will keep until to-morrow.” Hollister concealed a yawn. “Good night, Mrs. Meredith,” as she walked toward the entrance. Curtis’ mumbled “good night” was almost lost in her clear echo of their words as she disappeared through the portières.
“Coming upstairs, Curtis?” asked Hollister, pausing on his way out of the library. “Can I help you to your room?”
“Thanks, no. I’ve learned to find my way about fairly well,” answered Curtis. “I’ll stay down and smoke for a bit longer.”
“All right, see you in the morning,” and Hollister departed, after first pausing to pick up several magazines.
In spite of his statement that he was fairly familiar with his surroundings, it took Curtis some moments to locate the smoking stand and a box of matches. While lighting his cigar he was conscious of the sound of voices in the hall, which grew louder in volume and then died away. He had resumed his old seat and his cigar was drawing nicely when a hand was laid on his shoulder.
“Sorry to startle you,” remarked the newcomer. “I am Gerald Armstrong.”
“Yes, I recognize your voice,” Curtis started to rise, but his companion, one of the week-end house guests at Ten Acres, pressed him back in his chair.
“I only stopped for a word.” Armstrong hesitated as if in doubt. “I’ve just learned of—that you and Anne Meredith are to be married.”