He felt as if there were a knife being turned in his heart.  His whole soul revolted against this enforced pain.  He had never suffered like this in all his life before.  Even that night at the theatre, when Cynthia Farrow had given him his conge, he had not suffered as now; then, it had been more damage to his pride than his heart; but this—­he loved Christine—­he knew now that he loved little Christine as he had never loved any other woman, as he never would love anyone again.

He cursed himself for a blind fool.  It goaded him to madness to think of the happiness that had been his for the taking, and which he had let fall to the ground.  He clenched his teeth in impotent rage.  When they reached his rooms he threw his hat and coat aside, and began pacing up and down as if he could not keep still for a moment.  Life was insufferable, intolerable; he could not imagine how he was going to get through all the stretch of years lying in wait for him.  He had forgotten that the Great Horatio was coming home that night; the Great Horatio had suddenly faded out of the picture; it was no longer a thing of importance if his allowance were cut down, or stopped once and for all.  All he wanted was Christine—­Christine.  He would have given his soul for her at that moment, for just one glimpse of the old trust and love in her brown eyes, for just a sight of the happy smile with which she had greeted him when they were first engaged.  They had all been his once, and now he had lost her forever.

Another man had taken and prized the treasure he had blindly thrown away.  Jimmy groaned as he paced up and down, up and down.

Sangster was pretending to read.  He turned the pages of a magazine, but he saw nothing of what was written there.  In his own way he was as unhappy as Jimmy, in his own way he was suffering tortures of doubt and apprehension.

He did not know Kettering; had only seen him once at Upton House; but he fully realised that the man had a strong personality, and one very likely to hold and keep such a nature as Christine’s.

But he could not bear to think of the shipwreck this meant for them all.  He could not believe that her love for Jimmy had died so completely; she had loved him so dearly.

Jimmy came over to where he sat: 

“Go and ring up again, there’s a dear chap,” he said.  His voice was hoarse.  “Ring up the hotel for me, will you?  She may have come back. . . .  Oh, I hope to God she has,” he added brokenly.

Sangster rose at once.  He held out his hand.

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy.  I’d give anything—­anything——­” he stopped.  “But it’s all right, you see,” he added cheerily, struck by the despair in his friend’s face.  “She’ll be back there by now.  We’re both getting scared about nothing. . . .  I’ll ring up.”

He walked over to the desk where Jimmy’s ’phone stood.  There was a moment of suspense as he rang and gave the number.