For him and for her there could be no star.  To the end of life they two must go empty-handed.

CHAPTER XXIV

FLIGHT!

The big limousine was already at the door when Lady Gertrude and Isobel, clothed from head to foot in sombre black, descended from their respective rooms.  Roger, also clad in the same funereal hue and wearing a black tie—­and looking as though his garments afforded him the acme of mental discomfort—­stood waiting for them, together with Nan, in the hall.

Lady Gertrude bestowed one of her chilly kisses upon her son’s fiancee and stepped into the car, Isobel followed, and Roger, with a muttered:  “Confound Great-aunt Rachel’s fortune!” brought up the rear.  A minute later the car and its black-garbed occupants disappeared down the drive.

Nan turned back into the house.  There was a curiously lightened feeling in the atmosphere, she thought—­as though someone had lifted the roof of a dungeon and let in the sunlight and fresh air.  She stretched her arms luxuriously above her head and exhaled a long sigh of relief.  Then, running like a child let out of school, she fled down the long hall to the telephone stand.  Lifting the receiver, her fingers fairly danced upon the forked clip which had held it.

Her imperative summons was answered with a most unusual promptness by the exchange—­it was going to be a lucky day altogether, she told herself.  Demanding, “Trunks, please!” she gave the number of the Edenhall flat and prepared to possess her soul in patience till her call came through.

At lunch she was almost too excited to eat, and when finally Morton, entering quietly, announced:  “You are wanted on the telephone, miss,” she hardly waited to hear the end of the sentence but flew past him to the telephone stand and snatched up the instrument.

“Hello!  Hello!  That you, Penny? . . .  Yes, of course it’s Nan!  Oh, my dear, I’m so glad you’re back!  Listen.  I want to run up to town for a few days. . . .  Yes.  Roger’s away.  They’re all away. . . .  You can put me up?  To-morrow?  Thanks awfully, Penny. . . .  Yes, Waterloo.  At 4.16.  Good-bye.  Give my love to Ralph. . . .  Good-bye.”

She hung up the receiver and, returning to the dining-room, made a pretence of finishing her lunch.  Afterwards, with as much composure as she could muster up—­seeing that she wanted to dance and sing out of pure happiness—­she informed Morton that she had been called away suddenly to London and would require the car early the next morning to take her to the station.  Whatever curiosity Morton may have felt concerning this unexpected announcement, he concealed it admirably, merely replying with his usual imperturbability:  “Very good, miss.”

“I’m leaving a letter for Mr. Trenby—­to explain.  See that he has it as soon as he gets back to-morrow.”

And once again Morton answered respectfully: