“I haven't seen him,” smiled Leila evasively. “He will tell us his plans of course when he comes.”
“Oh,” said Quarrier, dropping his eyes and glancing furtively toward the curtained windows through which he could see the street and his Mercedes waiting at the curb. At the same instant a hansom drove up; Sylvia sprang out, ran lightly up the low steps, and the silent, shrouded house rang with the clamour of the bell.
Leila looked curiously at Quarrier, who sat motionless, head partly averted, as though listening to something heard by him alone. He believed perhaps that he was listening to the voice of Fate again, and it may have been so, for already, for the third time, all his plans were changing to suit this new ally of his—this miraculous Fate which was shaping matters for him as he waited. Sylvia had started up-stairs like a fragrant whirlwind, but her flying feet halted at Leila's constrained voice from the drawing-room, and she spun around and came into the darkened room like an April breeze.
“Leila! They'll be here at a quarter to seven—”
Her breath seemed to leave her body as a shadowy figure rose in the uncertain light and confronted her.
“You!”
He said: “Didn't you recognise the Mercedes outside?”
She had not even seen it, so excited, so deeply engaged had she been with the riotous tumult of her own thoughts. And still her hurt, unbelieving gaze widened to dismay as she stood there halted on the threshold; and still his eyes, narrowing, held her under their expressionless inspection.
“When did you come? Why?” she asked in an altered voice.
“I came on business. Naturally, being here, I came to see you. I understand you are dining out?”