It was well for Lieutenant Penthouse that he did not return to Dublin in time to attend that dinner.
Hemming knew a score of private houses in London where he would be welcome for a night or a month, but in his bitter mood he ignored the rights of friendship and went to a small hotel in an unfashionable part of the town. As soon as he had changed from his rough tweeds into more suitable attire, he started, in a cab, for the Travers house. The bishop was dead, and the widow, preferring London to Norfolk, spent every season in town. Hemming was sure of finding some one at home, though he trembled at the memory of his evil dreams. Upon reaching the house he dismissed the cab. The maid who opened the door recognized him, and showed him into the drawing-room.
"I hope every one is well," he said, pausing on the threshold.
"Yes, sir," replied the maid, looking surprised at the question. She had seen Captain Hemming many times, but never before had he addressed her.
It seemed to Hemming that he waited hours in the narrow, heavily furnished room. He could not sit still. At last he got to his feet, and, crossing to a corner table, examined the photographs of some people he knew. He wondered where his had gone to—the full-length portrait by Bettel, in field-uniform. He looked for it everywhere, an uncomfortable curiosity pricking him. Turning from his search, he saw Miss Travers watching him. He took a step toward her, and stopped short. Her face was white, her eyes were dark with the shadow of pain. Something had put out the familiar illumination that love had lighted so gloriously.
"Molly," whispered the man. His hands, extended at first sight of her, dropped impotently at his side. "For God's sake, what is the matter?" he cried. His honest gray eyes asked the question as plainly. Hers wavered, and looked beyond him in a pitiful, strained gaze.
"Why do you ask? You surely know," she said.
He could not speak for a moment. His brain, in a whirl of apprehension, groped for some clue whereby it might find understanding.
"I know nothing," he said, at last, "save that I am horribly afraid of something I do not understand—of your silence and the change in you." He paused for a moment, scanning her averted face. "And now I am a poor man," he added.
At that a faint red stole into her cheeks. He drew nearer and laid a hand quickly and tenderly upon her shoulder.