The other letters lay unheeded. She dropped back among the pillows, and there was no movement of the head, or even the hand in which lay the letter. She might have been asleep.
But when her maid, whose face betokened hesitation and perplexity, came in quietly, Claudia turned and opened her dark eyes. There were no tears in them, only a burning, unfathomable look which, though it envisaged Johnson clearly, did not notice her perturbed face.
“Madam, I——” began Johnson, clearing her throat. “Did the master tell you he would not be coming home last night?”
Claudia came back from a remote distance.
“Last night? No. He was only going to his club, I believe. Why, has he not slept in the flat?”
“No, madam, and he did not say anything about stopping out to Marsh, and he didn’t have his bag packed. He thought he had told Marsh to pack it for him to go down to Wynnstay, but Marsh says——”
“Yes, I remember. Perhaps he went down to Wynnstay, after all, rather late.” It had never happened before that Gilbert had been away from the flat without informing her or the servants; but Claudia saw nothing remarkable in the oversight.
“Marsh thought so too, madam, and he got a trunk call through to Wynnstay, but he has not been there, and then he telephoned the club and—and they told him Mr. Currey was there last night and left about twelve o’clock. I—we thought we had better mention it, madam.”
Claudia was roused to attention this time. Where could Gilbert have got to after he left the club? There were some wives, she knew, who would have dismissed the matter with a shrug of their shoulders, but she had no complaint of Gilbert on that score. Perhaps he would have been more human and companionable had he had some of the weaknesses of the flesh.
She looked at the clock. It was half-past nine. He was generally down at his chambers soon after nine.