"Father!"
"Ah, Arthur!"—no other word.
There was a hard grip of the hand, a sudden heat that flushed the haggard face, and then iron-cold composure.
"Won't you come to my house, Masterman? If only for to-night," pleaded Bundy.
"No; I want to go home.... To such a home as I've got," he added bitterly.
"Well, God bless you, my friend!" said Bundy softly.
"I'm not asking anything of God that I know of, and you needn't ask anything for me. I reckon I can look after myself. Tell the driver, Eagle House, Highbourne Gardens."
And the carriage moved off.
They reached the house, and entered it in silence. Masterman went at once to his room—the room in which his wife had died—and remained there. What memories, what remorses met him there, who can say? Arthur, passing that closed door at midnight, could hear his father walking up and down like a caged lion. He stood listening to that slow, continuous footfall; but he dared not knock upon the door. He went downstairs again, knowing sleep impossible, and sat in the deserted dining-room, still pursued by that inevitable footfall. A dreadful thought possessed his mind—his father might be contemplating suicide. When, for an instant, the footfall ceased the sweat of fear stood upon his forehead and his flesh crept. When it commenced again he drew a long breath of relief. So the brief summer night passed, sleepless for both father and son, and at last, through the unshuttered window, the first ray of dawn stole in.
The house appeared both deserted and dismantled. The pictures and much of the furniture had disappeared. Instead of the array of smiling servants, a single sour old woman occupied the kitchen. From her, Arthur learned that the pictures and the more valuable furniture had been sold at some auction rooms in the city; and that Helen had left the house upon the day of her mother's funeral, and had not returned. Did she know where she had gone? To some friend—so she said. But no one knew.