“I shall try to remember.”

Anita left Semmering the next day, against the protests of the doctor and the pleadings of the chaperon.  She did not see Stewart again.  But before she left, with the luggage gone and the fiacre at the door, she went out on the terrace, and looked across to the Villa Waldheim, rising from among its clustering trees.  Although it was too far to be certain, she thought she saw the figure of a man on the little balcony standing with folded arms, gazing across the valley to the Kurhaus.

Having promised to see Marie, Stewart proceeded to carry out his promise in his direct fashion.  He left Semmering the evening of the following day, for Vienna.  The strain of the confession was over, but he was a victim of sickening dread.  To one thing only he dared to pin his hopes.  Anita had said she cared, cared a great deal.  And, after all, what else mattered?  The story had been a jolt, he told himself.  Girls were full of queer ideas of right and wrong, bless them!  But she cared.  She cared!

He arrived in Vienna at nine o’clock that night.  The imminence of his interview with Marie hung over him like a cloud.  He ate a hurried supper, and calling up the Doctors’ Club by telephone found Peter’s address in the Siebensternstrasse.  He had no idea, of course, that Marie was there.  He wanted to see Peter to learn where Marie had taken refuge, and incidentally to get from Peter a fresh supply of moral courage for the interview.  For he needed courage.  In vain on the journey down had he clothed himself in armor of wrath against the girl; the very compartment in the train provoked softened memories of her.  Here they had bought a luncheon, there Marie had first seen the Rax.  Again at this station she had curled up and put her head on his shoulder for a nap.  Ah, but again, at this part of the journey he had first seen Anita!

He took a car to the Siebensternstrasse.  His idea of Peter’s manner of living those days was exceedingly vague.  He had respected Peter’s reticence, after the manner of men with each other.  Peter had once mentioned a boy he was looking after, in excuse for leaving so soon after the accident.  That was all.

The house on the Siebensternstrasse loomed large and unlighted.  The street was dark, and it was only after a search that Stewart found the gate.  Even then he lost the path, and found himself among a group of trees, to touch the lowest branches of any of which resulted in a shower of raindrops.  To add to his discomfort some one was walking in the garden, coming toward him with light, almost stealthy steps.

Stewart by his tree stood still, waiting.  The steps approached, were very close, were beside him.  So intense was the darkness that even then all he saw was a blacker shadow, and that was visible only because it moved.  Then a hand touched his arm, stopped as if paralyzed, drew back slowly, fearfully.

“Good Heavens!” said poor Harmony faintly.