She heard his well-known voice, and rising slowly, faced him without a word.
And he, without a word also, took her hand, bowing gallantly over it.
Then, with a half-timid look into her pretty face, he stammered:
“I—I’ve been wondering, Gwen, how you’ve been all this time. I’ve been away, first at Monte Carlo and afterwards up in Scotland. How did you spend your Christmas?”
“Well—it was not very exciting,” she laughed, “was it, dad?”
“No, my dear,” replied the old man, “I fear it was a very very dull time for you.”
Her lover glanced at her, and she saw by the expression of his eyes that he was full of genuine regret. That absence had, indeed, caused both their hearts to yearn for each other. He had, alas! been too hasty, he declared within himself. Would she ever forgive him? Would she ever allow him to kiss her again upon the lips?
Before her father his greeting was, of necessity, a somewhat formal one; besides, he was compelled to sit and discuss with him the present situation, and ask his opinion as to the next move in the game.
“The possession of a complete copy of Holmboe’s statement has carried us a good deal further. Professor,” he said, “but how are we now to act?”
“I really don’t know, my dear Farquhar,” was the elder man’s response, as he rubbed his big round glasses.