came forward to him with both her hands outstretched.
“Oh, you know something of Peter—tell us, please,” she said.
A stout, pleasant-faced gentleman behind her was introduced as Mr. Galleon.
Stephen explained. “But why, why,” said the gentleman, “didn't you let us know before, my good fellow?”
Stephen's brow darkened. “Peter didn't wish it,” he said.
But Norah Monogue came forward and put her hand on his arm. “You must be the Mr. Brant about whom he has so often talked,” she said. “I am so glad to meet you at last. Peter owes so much to you. We have been trying everywhere to get word of him because some publishers have taken his novel and think very well of it indeed. But come—do let us go at once. There is no time to lose—”
So they had taken his novel, had they? All these days—all these terrible hours—that starving, that ghastly anxiety, the boy's terror—all these things had been unnecessary. Had they only known, this separation now might have been avoided.
He could not trust himself to speak to Bobby Galleon and Norah Monogue. These were the people who were going to take Peter away.
He turned and went, in silence, down the stairs.
At Bucket Lane Bobby Galleon took affairs into his own hands. At once Peter should be removed to his house in Chelsea—it would not apparently harm him to be moved that night.
Peter was still unconscious. Stephen stood in the back of the room and watched them make their preparations. They had all forgotten him. For a moment as they passed down the stairs Stephen had his last glimpse of Peter. He saw the high white forehead, the long black eyelashes, the white drawn cheeks. . . . At this parting Peter had no eye for him.
Bobby Galleon and Miss Monogue both spoke to Stephen pleasantly before they went away. Stephen did not hear what they said. Bobby took Stephen's name down on a piece of paper. . . . Then they were gone. They were all gone.
