She put out her hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Herold. When you see Miss Stellamaris, you 'll tell her I'm a good girl—in that way, you know—and that I love her. She has been a kind of beautiful angel to me—has always been with me. It's funny; I can't explain. But you understand. If you'd only let her see that, I'd be so happy—and perhaps she'd be happier.”
“I 'll do my utmost,” said Herold.
He accompanied her down-stairs, and when she had gone, he returned to the library and walked about. The horror of the woman was upon him. He drank another brandy and soda. After a while Ripley came in with a soiled card on a tray. He looked at it stupidly—“Mr. Edwin Travers”—and nodded.
“Shall I show the gentleman up?”
He nodded again, thinking of the woman.
When the visitor came in he vaguely recognized him as a broken-down actor, a colleague of early days. As in a dream he bade the man sit down, and gave him cigarettes and drink, and heard with his outer ears an interminable tale of misfortune. At the end of it he went to his desk and wrote out a cheque, which he handed to his guest.
“I can't thank you, old man. I don't know how to. But as soon as I can get an engagement—hello, old man,” he cried, glancing at the cheque, “you've made a funny mistake—the name!”
Herold took the slip of paper, and saw that he had made the sum payable not to Edwin Travers, but to Louisa Risca. It was a shock, causing him to brace his faculties. He wrote out another cheque, and the man departed.
He went softly into John's room and found him sleeping peacefully.
Soon afterward Ripley announced that dinner was ready. It was past six o'clock.