“Yes, Sir Seymour.”
“Did you get rid of him easily?”
“Well, to tell the truth, Sir Seymour, he tried to be obstinate. I think—if you’ll excuse me—I certainly think that he was slightly under the influence of drink. Not drunk, you’ll understand, not at all as much as that! But still—”
“Yes—yes. If he comes back give him that note. And—do you think it would be wise to give him a hint that any further annoyance might lead to the intervention of the police? The young lady is very much upset and frightened. Do you think you might drop a word or two—at your discretion?”
“I’ll manage it, Sir Seymour. Leave it to me!”
“Very good of you, Henriques. Good night.”
“Good night, Sir Seymour. Always very glad to do anything for you.”
“Thank you.”
As Sir Seymour stepped out into Brook Street he glanced swiftly up and down the thoroughfare. But he did not see the man he was looking for. He stood still for a moment. There was hesitation in his mind. The natural thing, he felt, would be to go at once to Berkeley Square and to have a talk with Adela. It was late. He was beginning to feel hungry. Adela would give him some dinner. But—could he go to Adela just now? No; he could not. And he hailed a cab and drove home. Something the beast had said had made a horrible impression upon the faithful lover, an impression which remained with him, which seemed to be eating its way, like a powerful acid, into his very soul, corroding, destroying.
Adela—young Craven!