“God, Peter, what—”
“She's gone away, Bobby,” Peter said, in a voice that shook a little but was otherwise grave and almost a whisper, so low was it. “She's gone away—to Cardillac.” Then he added to himself—“Cardillac is my best friend.”
Then he said “Listen,” and he read the letter straight through. He repeated some of the phrases—“What you did on April 12.” “That shows that you don't care. . . . You are cruel and hard, Peter. . . . I am going to Jerry in Paris. . . .”
“Jerry—that's Cardillac, you know, Bobby. He's in Paris and she's going over to him because she can't stand me any more. She says I don't care about her. Isn't that funny, when I love her so much?”
Bobby went to him, put his arm round his neck—
“Peter—dear—Peter—wait,” and then “Oh my God! we must stop her—”
He drew himself away from Bobby's arm and, very unsteadily, went across the room and then stood against the farther wall, his head bent, motionless.
“Stop her? Oh! no, Bobby. Stop her when she wants to go! I—” His voice wasn't Peter's voice, it was a thin monotonous voice like some one speaking at a great distance.
Then it seemed that intelligence was flashed upon him. He lurched forward and with a great voice—as though he had been struck by some sudden agonising, immortal pain—
“Bobby—Bobby—My wife—Clare—”
And at that instant Mrs. Rossiter was shown into the room.
III
The maid who opened the door had apparently some suspicion that “things were odd,” because she waited for a moment before she closed the door again, staring with wide eyes into the room, catching, perhaps, some hint from her master's white face that something terrible had occurred.
It was obvious enough that Mrs. Rossiter had herself, during the last week, been in no easy mind. From the
