He sat staring at the telegram; she, vaguely apprehensive for the safety of this new happiness of hers, clasped her hands tightly in her lap and waited.
“Any answer, sir?” asked the steward.
Crawford took the offered telegram blank and mechanically wrote:
“Instructions received. Will expect you and Garcide to-night.
James Crawford.”
She sat, twisting her fingers on her knees, watching him in growing apprehension. The steward took the telegram.
Crawford looked at her with a ghastly smile.
They rose together, instinctively, and walked to the porch.
“Oh yes,” he said, under his breath, “such happiness was too perfect. Magic is magic—it never lasts.”
“What is it?” she asked, faintly.
He picked up his cap, which was lying on a chair.