For a moment or two Jack stood looking at the girl lying upon the bed.
“Oh, Annette, my dear, dear girl,” he cried in a breaking voice as he knelt down by her side and took her hand in his.
So much reached Adrien's ears as she closed the door and passed to her room with step weary and lifeless.
“Why, Adrien,” cried her sister, who was waiting to relieve her, “you are like a ghost! You poor dear. You are horribly done out.”
“I believe I am, Patricia,” said Adrien. “I believe I shall rest awhile.” She lay down on the bed, her face turned toward the wall, and so remained till Patricia went softly away, leaving her, as she thought, to sleep.
Downstairs Patricia found Victor Forsythe awaiting her.
“Poor Adrien is really used up,” she said. “She has a deathly look in her face. Just the same look as she had that night of the hockey match. Do you remember?”
“The night of the hockey dance? Do I remember? A ghastly night—a horrid night—a night of unspeakable wretchedness.”
As Vic was speaking, Patricia kept her eyes steadily upon him with a pondering, puzzled look.
“What is it, Patricia? I know you want to ask me something. Is it about that night?”