What had he and Dulcie found in common to converse about so earnestly and so long there in the music-room? What had they talked about to drive the colour from Dulcie’s cheeks and alter Skeel’s countenance so that he had looked more like his own wraith than his living self?
That Dulcie’s mother had known this man, had once, evidently, been in love with him more or less, doubtless 330 was revealed in their conversation at the piano. Had Skeel enlightened Dulcie any further? And on what subject? Soane? Her mother? Her origin—in case the child had admitted ignorance of it? Was Dulcie, now, in possession of new facts concerning herself? Were they agreeable facts? Were they depressing? Had she learned anything definite in regard to her birth? Her parentage? Did she know, now, who was her real father? Was the obvious absurdity of Soane finally exploded? Had she learned what the drunken Soane meant by asserting that her name was not Soane but Fane?
His pipe burned out and he laid it aside, but did not rise to resume his preparation for bed.
Then, somewhere from the unlighted depths of the house came the sound of the telephone bell—at that hour of night always a slightly ominous sound.
He got up and went down stairs, not troubling to switch on any light, for the lustre of the starry night outside silvered every window and made it possible for him to see his way.
At the clamouring telephone, finally, he unhooked the receiver:
“Hello?” he said. “Yes! Yes! Oh, is that you, Renoux? Where on earth are you?... At Northbrook?... Where?... At the Summit House? Well, why didn’t you come here to us?... Oh!... No, it isn’t very late. We retire early at Foreland.... Oh, yes, I’m dressed.... Certainly.... Yes, come over.... Yes!... Yes!... I’ll wait for you in the library.... In an hour?... You bet. No, I’m not sleepy.... Sure thing!... Come on!”
He hung up the receiver, turned, and made his way through the dusk toward the library which was opposite the music-room across the big entrance hall.
Before he turned on any light he paused to look out at the splendour of the stars. The night had grown warmer; there was no haze, now, only an argentine clarity in which shadowy trees stood mysterious and motionless and the dim lawn stretched away to the distant avenue and wall, lost against their looming border foliage.