“In this house?”
“Yes.”
“But why didn’t you let us hear from you?”
He seemed to be making an effort to speak.
“What did it matter? I didn’t suppose any one cared.”
Perhaps it was my imagination, but I could not get rid of the thought that Arthur’s pale eyes fixed tenaciously upon my face, were trying to tell me something, something quite different from what his lips said.
I felt chilled. Although the blinds were open, the room was almost darkened by the branches of the trees that pressed against the window. Arthur had not given me his hand, had seemed troubled to know how to make me welcome. Yet of one thing I was certain: He needed me and he wanted me to know he needed me.
As I took a chair I glanced about the room. It was a typical lodging-house room, medium sized, flowered wall paper, worn matting, nondescript rugs, a wash-stand in one corner, a chiffonier in another, a table in the center, two or three chairs, and the couch which evidently served Arthur as a bed. But it was cold, strangely cold for such a warm day.
Arthur’s eyes had wandered uneasily to my suitcase. He made an effort to drag himself to his feet.