He knew the writing only too well, it was from Curtis.
It was a pleasant little party, but a strange foreboding made Hugh distrait. When the ladies had gone, and the men were smoking, he took the letter from his pocket, and asking permission of his guests broke the seal. Inside was another letter, and his heart gave a bound as he saw the scrawly writing of Winnie. He had received letters full of appeal from her—asking him to come back. She had thought him at some foreign war, and could only write through Curtis, who was Sphinx-like as to his place of abode. Finally he had told Curtis not to forward any more. Why had he broken this instruction?
He balanced this one in front of the fire; better burn it and let the dead past bury its dead, but something stayed his hand, and he broke the seal.
He sat so long staring into the fire, that his guests gave sidelong glances at him. His face was ashen, and there was a devil peeping out of his eyes. At last the silence became intolerable, and the Doctor asked, “Nothing wrong, Desmond, I hope.”
Hugh gave a horrible laugh which sent a shudder down the backs of his listeners.
“Wrong! No, splendid news. I am sorry to be so rude. A great friend or enemy of mine, I am not certain which, is about to become a happy father, good luck to him. Let’s come and join the ladies.”
His gaiety that evening was contagious, and Carlotta hoped that he was getting over his moods, and coming back to his old self.
When the others had gone he kissed her tenderly good-night.
“I shall not be coming yet, Daphne,” he said, using the old name. “I want to have a think.”
“All right, Darling,” she replied, lifting her sweet eyes to him. “But you look tired and worn, poor Hugh!”