“How long before you’ve got to know?” inquired Martin hoarsely.
“Oh, I can give you time,” answered Mr. Benton easily. “A week, say—how will that do?”
“I shan’t need as long as that,” Martin replied, looking before him with set face. “I shall know by to-morrow what I am going to do.”
“There’s no such hurry as all that.”
“I shall know by to-morrow,” repeated the younger man in the same dull voice. “All the time in the universe won’t change things after that.”
Mr. Benton made no response. When in his imaginings he had pictured the scene, he had thought that after the first shock of surprise was over, he and Martin would sit down together sociably and discuss each petty detail of the remarkable comedy. But comedy had 280 suddenly become tragedy—a tragedy very real and grim—and all desire to discuss it had ebbed away.
As he moved toward the door, he did not even put out his hand; on the contrary, whispering a hushed good night and receiving no reply to it, he softly let himself out and disappeared through the afternoon shadows.
If Martin were conscious of his departure, he at least gave no sign of being so, but continued to stand motionless in the same spot where Mr. Benton had left him, his hands gripped tightly behind his back, and his head thrust forward in thought.
Silently the hours passed. The sun sank behind the hills, tinting the ridge of pines to copper and leaving the sky a sweep of palest blue in which a single star trembled.
Still Martin did not move. Once he broke into a smothered cry: