"Good! I've some important news for him. There's no reason why you shouldn't know it. His aunt in England has died and left him the estate. Stan's lean days are over."
The rich hue ebbed out of Dee's face. "He'll go back, then," she mused. At once she recovered herself. "I am glad," she said.
"I knew you would be," he answered. But he thought with pity: "She still loves him"; and, with uneasiness, "and still sees him." He continued: "He'll be going back within a month at the latest. I'll go on to-morrow to find him."
He got out, bared his head, and helped her to alight.
"At seven o'clock then," she said. "Shall I get some people in? Who do you want to see?"
"No one else in the world," he answered with such conviction that she smiled up at him.
"You are a dear, Cary. I can't tell you how much we've missed you. Pat almost went into mourning."
She did not see his expression change, ever so slightly, as he turned away. Business of his own kept Scott busy most of the afternoon. When he reached the club he found Jameson James waiting to motor him out. James was amiable in his stiff and carefully measured way.
Scott went to his room immediately upon their arrival, bathed, dressed, drank the preliminary cocktail which Dee had mixed with her own hands and sent up to him, and had started to go downstairs when he stopped, his breath piling up, as it were, in his throat from an emotion half dismay, half rapture. The unforgettable, luscious huskiness of a voice floated up from below.