“That was all I was going to say the other day,” he said. “I was going to ask you—”
“Yes, that was all you were going to say the other day. Yes. What else have you to say to-night?”
“To-night,” he replied, with grim swiftness, “I want to know why you keep telephoning him you want to see him since he stopped coming here.”
She made a long, low sound of comprehension before she said, “And what else did Edith want you to ask me?”
“I want to know what you say over the telephone to Lamhorn,” he said, fiercely.
“Is that all Edith told you to ask me? You saw her when you stopped in there on your way home this evening, didn’t you? Didn’t she tell you then what I said over the telephone to Mr. Lamhorn?”
“No, she didn’t!” he vociferated, his voice growing louder. “She said, ’You tell your wife to stop telephoning Robert Lamhorn to come and see her, because he isn’t going to do it!’ That’s what she said! And I want to know what it means. I intend—”
A maid appeared at the lower end of the hall. “Dinner is ready,” she said, and, giving the troubled pair one glance, went demurely into the dining-room. Roscoe disregarded the interruption.
“I intend to know exactly what has been going on,” he declared. “I mean to know just what—”
Sibyl jumped up, almost touching him, standing face to face with him.
“Oh, you do!” she cried, shrilly. “You mean to know just what’s what, do you? You listen to your sister insinuating ugly things about your wife, and then you come home making a scene before the servants and humiliating me in their presence! Do you suppose that Irish girl didn’t hear every word you said? You go in there and eat your dinner alone! Go on! Go and eat your dinner alone—because I won’t eat with you!”
And she broke away from the detaining grasp he sought to fasten upon her, and dashed up the stairway, panting. He heard the door of her room slam overhead, and the sharp click of the key in the lock.
At seven o’clock on the last morning of that month, Sheridan, passing through the upper hall on his way to descend the stairs for breakfast, found a couple of scribbled sheets of note-paper lying on the floor. A window had been open in Bibbs’s room the evening before; he had left his note-book on the sill—and the sheets were loose. The door was open, and when Bibbs came in and closed it, he did not notice that the two sheets had blown out into the hall. Sheridan recognized the handwriting and put the sheets in his coat pocket, intending to give them to George or Jackson for return to the owner, but he forgot and carried them down-town with him. At noon he found himself alone in his office, and, having a little leisure, remembered the bits of manuscript, took them out, and glanced at them. A glance