“I believe so, sir,” replied the man. “Her ladyship has been out driving to-day.”
“Please give her that card. Wait one moment.”
He pencilled on the card, “I hope you are better,—A.C.,” gave it to the man, and walked away, feeling sure that Lady Sellingworth was in the house but did not choose to see him.
In the evening he received the following note from her:
18A, BERKELEY SQUARE,
Thursday.
DEAR MR. CRAVEN,—How kind of you to call and to write that little message. I am sorry I could not see you. I’m not at all ill, and have been out driving. But, between you and me—for I hate to make a fuss about trifling matters of health—I feel rather played out. Perhaps it’s partly old age! You know nothing about that. Any variation in my quiet life seems to act as a disturbing influence. And the restaurant the other night really was terribly hot. I mustn’t go there again, though it is great fun. I suppose you didn’t see Beryl? She has been to see me, but said nothing about it. Be nice to her. I don’t think she has many real friends in London.—Yours very sincerely,
ADELA SELLINGWORTH.
“What is it? What has happened?” Craven thought, as he put down the letter.
He felt that some drama had been played out, or partially played out, within the last days which he did not understand, which he was not allowed to understand. Lady Sellingworth chose to keep him in the dark. Well, she had the right to do that. As he thought over things he realized that the heat in the restaurant could certainly not have been the sole reason of her strange conduct on the night when they had dined together. Something had upset her mentally. A physical reason only could not account for her behaviour. And again he thought of Arabian.