But now—here was a letter from the beautiful girl! He took it up, carried it into his sitting-room, and tore open the envelope.
“CLARIDGE’S.
“Thursday.
“MY DEAR MR. CRAVEN,—I am going back to Paris almost directly and should very much like to see you if possible to say good-bye. Have you a few minutes to spare any time? If so, do come round to the hotel and let us have a last little talk.—Yours sincerely,
“BERYL VAN TUYN.”
When he had read this brief note Craven was struck, as he had been struck when he had read Lady Sellingworth’s letter to him, by a certain finality in the wording. Good-bye—a last little talk! Miss Van Tuyn might have put “au revoir,” might have omitted the word “last.”
He looked at the clock. It was not very late—only half-past five. He decided to go at once to the hotel. And he went. Miss Van Tuyn was at home. He went up in the lift and was shown into her sitting-room. He waited there for a few minutes. Then the door opened and she came in smiling.
“How good of you to come so soon! I hardly expected you.”
“But—why not?” he said, as he took her hand.
She glanced at him inquiringly, he thought, then said: