In a moment the man returned.
“Pack my suit-case, Tom. I am going to Monte Carlo at once.”
“For how long, sir?”
“Pack enough for a fortnight.”
He traveled through to the Riviera without stopping in Paris, and drove direct to the Hotel X. Upon inquiring for Yootha he was told that the doctor was with her. The hotel manager looked grave when Preston inquired how ill she had been.
A moment later the door opened, and a solemn-faced gentleman of patriarchal aspect entered. The manager at once introduced him to Preston, and explained who Preston was.
“She has dropped off to sleep at last,” the doctor said. “I had to give her a mild narcotic. She has been eagerly awaiting your arrival since she received your wire, and I believe your presence will do her more good than anything else. She appears to be suffering chiefly from shock—a mental shock of some sort. Her nerves are greatly upset.”
When some hours later Yootha awoke, her gaze rested upon her lover seated beside her bed. For a moment she fancied she must still be dreaming. Then, with a glad cry, she sat up and stretched her arms out to him.
“Oh, my darling,” she cried, “how good of you to have come to me! Even when I got your telegram I feared that something might detain you. I have had a terrible time since last we met—terrible!”
For a minute they remained locked in each other’s arms, the happiest moments they had spent since that never-to-be-forgotten evening under the shadow of the Sugarloaf Mountain in Monmouthshire. And then, perhaps for the first time, Yootha realized to the full the joy of being truly loved by a man on whose loyalty and steadfastness she knew she could implicitly depend.