“I have spoken to Doctor Harrison about it,” she went on, her voice scarcely audible.  “He told me that you probably loved more than you dared to show, because someday the real Everard might come back.”

“That is quite true,” he reminded her softly.  “He may come back at any moment.”

She gripped his hand, her voice shook with passion.  She leaned towards him, her other arm stole around his neck.

“But I don’t want him to come back!” she cried.  “I want you!”

Dominey sat for a moment motionless, like a figure of stone.  Through the wide-flung, blind-shielded windows came the raucous cry of a newsboy, breaking the stillness of the summer evening.  And then another and sharper interruption,—­the stopping of a taxicab outside, the firm, insistent ringing of the front doorbell.  Recollection came to Dominey, and a great strength.  The fire which had leaped up within him was thrust back.  His response to her wave of passion was infinitely tender.

“Dear Rosamund,” he said, “that front doorbell summons me to rather an important interview.  Will you please trust in me a little while longer?  Believe me, I am not in any way cold.  I am not indifferent.  There is something which you will have to be told,—­something with which I never reckoned, something which is beginning to weigh upon me night and day.  Trust me, Rosamund, and wait!”

She sank back into her chair with a piquant and yet pathetic little grimace.

“You tell me always to wait,” she complained.  “I will be patient, but you shall tell me this.  You are so kind to me.  You make or mar my life.  You must care a little?  Please?”

He was standing up now.  He kissed her hands fondly.  His voice had all the old ring in it.

“More than for any woman on earth, dear Rosamund!”

Seaman, in a light grey suit, a panama, and a white beflowered tie, had lost something of the placid urbanity of a few months ago.  He was hot and tired with travel.  There were new lines in his face and a queer expression of anxiety about his eyes, at the corners of which little wrinkles had begun to appear.  He responded to Dominey’s welcome with a fervour which was almost feverish, scrutinised him closely, as though expecting to find some change, and finally sank into an easy-chair with a little gesture of relief.  He had been carrying a small, brown despatch case, which he laid on the carpet by his side.

“You have news?” Dominey asked.

“Yes,” was the momentous reply, “I have news.”

Dominey rang the bell.  He had already surmised, from the dressing-case and coats in the hall, that his visitor had come direct from the station.

“What will you have?” he enquired.

“A bottle of hock with seltzer water, and ice if you have it,” Seaman replied.  “Also a plate of cold meat, but it must be served here.  And afterwards the biggest cigar you have.  I have indeed news, news disturbing, news magnificent, news astounding.”