Leslie had spent rather a boring afternoon, and not once but many times she regretted that she had promised to return to Arthur’s office. He was driving her down to Willow House, and, but for this arrangement, she would have returned to Chelfordbury by an early train, for her shopping did not occupy more than an hour.
She rang up her brother to suggest this plan, never doubting that he would agree, but, to her surprise:
“I think you’d better return with me, girl. Come along to the office about half-past four instead of five. By the way, Gilder wants us to go home to his flat to tea. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mr. Gilder?” she said, in surprise, and he went on hastily:
“We ought to be civil to him. He’s going to be a neighbour of ours, and he--he’s not a bad sort of fellow.”
Her inclination was to plead a headache and be excused an experience which, to state the matter mildly, was not wholly to her taste. But Arthur seldom asked a favour of her, and it was apparent from his tone that he was anxious she should show this act of civility to his head clerk; somewhat unwillingly she agreed.
If he detected her reluctance, he made no comment upon it and seemed in a hurry to hang up. There was no reason in the world why the projected call should make her uneasy, and yet, for some obscure reason, this coming experience hung like a cloud over her for the rest of the afternoon. This time, when she returned to the office, she entered by Arthur’s private door. He was alone, sitting at his desk in a familiar attitude, his head between his hands, his gloomy eyes fixed upon the blotting-pad. She thought his face had less colour than usual; and in his eyes there was a haggard, hunted expression which was startling. He forced a smile to greet her, but she was not deceived.
“Aren’t you well, Arthur?” she asked anxiously.
“Fit as a fiddle,” he laughed; “only I have had a pretty heavy day. I suppose I look a little washed out.”
He did not seem very anxious to discuss himself, but plunged straight into the subject of the surprising call they were to make.
“Gilder has a flat off Regent’s Park,” he said. “Be as nice to him as you can, Leslie. He’s been a pretty useful man. By the way,” he said awkwardly, “he is a bachelor.”
She smiled at this; in her wildest dreams she would not have imagined that this statement had any particular interest for herself.
“I had no idea he was such a--that he was so prosperous,” she said. “No, I don’t mean that bachelorhood is a sign of poverty, but his estate at Chelfordbury and his flat in Regent’s Park are not exactly what one would have expected.”
“He isn’t a bad fellow,” repeated Arthur, as he rang the bell. “I think you’ll like him: he is rather--amusing.”
“Amusing” was not the word he would have used, in all truth, but it was the only word he could think of at the moment. As though he were waiting for this summons, Mr. Gilder came in answer to the bell. He carried a light coat over his arm and a spotless gray felt hat in his hand. Again she was uncomfortably conscious of the man’s scrutiny.
“You know Mr. Gilder, Leslie?”
His uneasiness and apprehension were communicating themselves to her. Try as she did, she could not succeed in shaking off her sensation of disquietude. The atmosphere was electric; she would have been dull indeed if she had not responded to the strain.
Throughout the journey Mr. Gilder talked almost without interruption. He had a deep but pleasant voice, and was an easy conversationalist. Arthur was beginning to know something about the man with whom he had worked side by side all these years, and to regard him in a new light. Hitherto, Gilder had been a cipher--a familiar figure that had appeared from heaven knew where in the morning and had disappeared at the end of a day’s work into the blue. As though unconscious of his employer’s wonder and speculation, Gilder chatted on.
Afterward, Leslie catalogued the subjects which were discussed so one-sidedly in that drive. He talked of aviation, of wireless, of books he had read--Dumas was his favourite--of the war, of Russia, of Italy’s renaissance, of American writers, of the weather, polo--of almost every subject that occupied public attention. She knew that he was trying to impress her, and saw in this no more than the natural desire of a man to look well in the eyes of a woman.
The flat was bigger than she had expected, and was in one of many in the most exclusive apartment house on the Outer Circle. Arthur viewed its expensive appointments with a glum face. One black week of his at Ascot must have furnished three such flats as this, he thought, and the little devil of resentment and loathing grew stronger in his heart.
Tea was served by two trimly uniformed maids, and Mr. Gilder acted the part of host to perfection. He had a library of rare old books which she must see, and he took them to a room the walls of which were fitted with bookshelves and reminded Leslie, though there was no resemblance between the two apartments, of the hall wherein her fiancé spent most of his time.
Gilder was showing the girl a rare first edition when a surprising thing happened.
“Do you mind if I run out for five minutes, Leslie? I want to see a fellow who lives on the other side of the Park.”
Arthur Gwyn’s voice was husky, his assumption of ease a miserable failure. The girl looked at him in astonishment, and then examined the face of the little watch on her wrist.
“If you want to be back at Willow House in time for dinner----” she began.
“I sha’n’t be more than a quarter of an hour gone,” he said desperately. “If you don’t mind…”
Before she could utter a word he had vanished. It was all so unexpected, so strange, that she could not quite realize what had happened, and the last thought in the world she could have had was that Arthur was deliberately leaving her alone with this gray man.
On one point her mind was made up: she did not like Mr. Gilder; and she was fairly certain that her antipathy was shared by her brother. His strange manner in the presence of the man, his awkwardness, and, most convincing proof of all, his silence, puzzled her. Arthur was intensely selfish, would not go a step out of his way either for courtesy’s sake or to save the feelings of those whom he regarded as his dependents. And this sudden desire to oblige his head clerk was contradictory to her knowledge of him. Yet she felt neither alarm nor annoyance, finding herself in that little library, alone with this square-jawed clerk.
As the door closed upon her brother, Fabrian Gilder carefully replaced on the shelf the book he had been examining.
“I shall be in my new home by the spring,” he said, “and I hope I shall see more of you, Miss Gwyn.”
She made a conventionally polite reply.
“My ambition has always been to settle in the country and to follow my two hobbies, which are fishing and reading,” he went on. “Happily, I am in the position of being able to retire from my profession--your brother has probably told you that I am a fairly wealthy man.”
Something in his tone focussed her attention. Her heart beat a little faster, and for the first time she was conscious of being alone with him.
“I am not an old man--fifty I regard as the prime of life--and I think I have the capacity for making any woman happy.”
She met his eyes steadily.
“I hope we shall have the pleasure of meeting your wife,” she said.
He made no reply to this, and she grew hot and cold under the scrutiny of those merciless gray eyes. And then, before she realized what was happening, his two big hands had closed about her arms and he was holding her away from him, peering into her face.
“There is one woman in the world for me,” he said, and his voice was husky with emotion; “one face that fills my eyes day and night! Leslie, all these months you have not been out of my sight or mind!”
“Let me go!” she cried, struggling to free herself.
“I want you! I’ve worked for you, I’ve schemed for you! Leslie, I love you as you will never be loved again! I want you--I want you!”
He was drawing her nearer and nearer, his eyes, like coals of fire, fascinated her to a queer listlessness that was almost quiescence. She found no reserve to combat him, and could only stare helplessly at the hard face----
There was a knock at the door. He pushed her aside, his face convulsed with rage.
“Who is that?” he asked harshly, and the voice of the maid replied:
