At his sister's house no one was stirring; even the servants were still abed. He was vaguely glad of this, for he was in no mood for conversation of any sort. Having a latchkey to the front door, he admitted himself and went up to his room at the top of the stairs. Should he lie down and try to snatch a little sleep? he reflected, for his journey and mental state had quite deprived him of rest. Throwing off his coat and vest and removing his collar, necktie, and shoes, he sank on his bed and closed his eyes. But to no effect. His brain was throbbing; his every nerve was as taut as the strings of a violin; cold streams of despair coursed through his veins. For the thousandth time he saw before him the revengeful face of a woman—a face now full of fury—a face which he had once thought rarely pretty, rarely coy, gentle, and submissive. What could be done? Oh! what could be done?
He heard the iceman stop at the door, curiously noted his slow, contented tread as he trudged round to the kitchen to leave the block of ice. He saw the first reddish-yellow shafts of sunlight as they shot through the slats of the window-blinds, fell on his bureau, lighting up the silver toilet articles and the leaning gilt frame holding a large photograph of Irene Mitchell. He sat on the edge of the bed, thrust his feet into his slippers, and stared at the picture. Was it possible that he had really thought seriously of marrying her? It seemed like a vague dream, his entire association with her. For months he had been her chief escort; he had called on her at least twice a week. He had made no denial when his and her friends spoke of the alliance as a coming certainty, and yet a simple little mountain girl had come into his life, and all the rest was over. But why think of that when the other thing hung like a sinister pall above him?
There was a step in the corridor close to the door, then a rap.
"Come!" he cried, thinking it was a servant. The door opened partially, and the reddish face of his sister, under a mass of yellowish crinkly hair, peeped in, smiling.
"I heard you on the stairs," she said. "I'm not dressed, and so I'll not kiss you. I've told the cook to get your breakfast at once, for I know you are hungry."
"Thanks, I am," he answered. "I have been up all night."
She was ten years older than he, short, and firmly built. Her blue, calculating eyes had a sleepy look.
"You must have been up late last night, yourself," he said, nothing more vital occurring to his troubled mind.
"Oh yes, Alan Delbridge gave a big reception and dance in his rooms. Supper was served at the club at one o'clock. Champagne and all the rest. I was the blindest chaperon you ever saw. Good-by—if I don't get down to breakfast it will be because I'm sound asleep. I knew you would cut your outing short."
"You say you did?" he cried, his heart sinking. "What made you think so?"