She shrank wide of him as he opened the door for her, and she passed out, her eyes remote.
It was then that the poet-charlatan became suddenly aware of his sentence. If the Avengers, or what not uncheerful personages of Greek Tragedy had surrounded him with their ghastly shapes and had chanted their dismal Choric Ode of Doom, his inmost soul could not have been more convinced of that which he must forthwith do. He never thought of questioning the message. He faced the absolute.
Waiting until he heard the click of the outer door of the flat announcing Olivia’s departure in quest of unpolluted air, he went into his dressing-room and packed a suit-case with necessaries, including the despatch-case which contained his John Briggs papers and the accursed little black book.
He met Myra in the hall, impassive.
“If you had told me you were going on a journey, I would have packed for you. Does Mrs. Triona know?”
“No,” said he. “She doesn’t. Wait.”
He left her, and returned a few moments afterwards with a note he had scribbled. After all, Olivia must suffer no uncertainty. She must not dread his possible return.
“Give that to Mrs. Triona.”
“Are you coming back?”
He looked at her as at a Fate in a black gown relieved by two solitary patches of white at the wrists.