The cry brought Hastings round to that other whose presence he had forgotten. But next moment she was down before him; Hastings felt her arms tight clasped about his knees.
“My husband, listen to me!” she implored. “I—we—there is somebody else to be considered.” Hastings shuddered. “We—you and I—shall be the parents of a child! I have not told you. For the sake of our child, from you, that child’s father, I must ask forgiveness!”
She bowed her head sobbingly against Hastings. He put his hand on her hair and was drawing her up to him when the stranger rushed forward to tear her fiercely away.
“Lies! lies!” the stranger ranted. “Go to him, I tell you! His child—his mistress shall not dishonor my house. Go to him, for he isn’t dead, and he needs you—you who are not needed here.”
“Don’t! don’t!” she screamed out to Hastings. “I am your wife, the mother of your—!”
Hastings sprang toward her. He saw that her hands were raised straight up in the air. Just as he was about to reach forth to her, the stranger plunged before him, caught the gray chiffon from her shoulders, and pressed it madly on her throat. Hastings leaped upon him, pulled him away, pinned him to the floor, rolled over him.
She had gone. The room was in darkness.
Hastings felt for the door. It yielded. He opened another door, and stepped through it.
His head swam in the midst of the lights outside. He slunk back like one who hesitates to confront the unknown. The stairs were there before him; he began to descend, his right hand held forth, his eyes fastened in horror upon it. Then, as he heard the distant hum of voices below, once more pompous and erect he swung down the last broad treads between the landing and the floor.
A servant who passed uttered a cry and vanished; but that did not deter him. With long strides he boldly rounded the familiar corner to the dining-room door and entered.