“Anthony,” she said, “I have been selfish, and weak. I have made it hard for you. But you can count on me now.”
I tried to murmur a protest to this, but she swept on: “I am going to do whatever you decide for me. I shan't make any more difficulties. Now go. God bless you, Anthony.”
She dropped my hand, and stepped back.
I stood there and fumbled the door knob. I felt that I was almost certainly going to draw her to me and kiss those wonderful eyes that are the light of my soul.
But she still looked strong.
“I wonder,” she said, musingly, “if there was ever, anywhere in the world, a man exactly like you.”
Then she turned away. “You'd better go,” she said, with a little gesture.
I went then.
Crocker was not in his room, at the Wagon-lits. I knocked several times; then, turning the knob and finding that the door was unlocked, walked in and looked around.
I was about to leave when the thought of that sheath knife came to me. It was an unpleasant thought; but once it had got into my mind I could not, it: seemed, get it out. I stood there in the middle of the room, thinking about it. The suitcase was still on the chair by the wall, closed.