From his silver case he took a cigar, and, biting off the end, leisurely lit it. His countenance had changed. Again it was the same grey sinister face that had so long haunted me in my dream—the face of the Tempter.
“Have you finished?” he asked, with mock politeness.
“For the moment, yes,” I answered. “But yours is an ill-advised defiance, as you will very soon see.”
He burst forth into a peal of strained, unnatural laughter, whereat I turned upon my heel and left him standing there a dark silhouette in the crimson sunset. Blindly I walked on to the house, dressed mechanically, and descended late for dinner. But the Tempter was not in his place; he had been called away to London, it was said, and had been compelled to catch the 07:30 train from Corsham.
I glanced at my watch; it was already 07:35. I had blundered, and had allowed him to slip through my fingers. I bit my lip in mad vexation.
Beryl’s beautiful eyes were fixed upon me, and in her face I detected deep anxiety. She looked perfectly charming in a gown of pale pink crêpe-de-chine. Had he sought her before departure, I wondered?
“It’s an awful disappointment that he has had to leave,” said the baronet’s wife. “I endeavoured to persuade him to remain until the morning, but he received a letter by the afternoon post making it imperative that he should return to London. But he says he will be back again either on Monday or Tuesday.”
“I do hope he will return,” observed some one at the end of the table, and then the subject dropped. When the ladies had left the room Sir Henry remarked—“Queer fellow, Ashwicke—a bit eccentric, I always think. His movements are most erratic—a regular rolling stone.”
I embraced that opportunity to inquire regarding his antecedents, but my host appeared to know very little beyond the fact that he was wealthy, good company, a keen sportsman, and moved in a very smart set in town.
“I’ve known him a couple of years or so; he’s a member of my club,” he added. “My wife declares that none of the parties are complete without him.”