It was in the brief, dry form of his business conversation, giving no hint that there were emotions behind the stilted phraseology, and an old man’s yearnings.  Mr. Skinner was far from well, and would “proceed immediately” to Carlsbad.  Strange would hand over the business at Rosario to Mr. Green—­who would become resident manager, pro tem at any rate—­and present himself in Buenos Aires at the earliest convenient moment.  Mr. Jarrott would be glad to see him as soon as possible after his arrival.

That was all; but as far as the young man was concerned, it saved the situation.  On consulting the steamer-list he saw that the Royal Mail Steam Packet Corrientes would sail for Southampton in exactly six days’ time.  By dint of working all night with Mr. Green, who was happy to lend himself to anything that would show him the last of his rival, he was able to take a train to the Port next day.  It was half-past six when he arrived in Buenos Aires.  By half-past eight he had washed, changed to an evening suit, and dined.  At nine his cab stopped at the door of the house at Palermo.

As he followed the elderly man-servant who admitted him, the patio was so dim that he made his way but slowly.  He made his way but slowly, not only because the patio was dim, but because he was trying to get his crowding emotions under control before meeting his employer in an interview that might be fraught with serious results.  For once in his life he was unnerved, tremulous, almost afraid.  As he passed the open doors and windows of unlighted, or dimly lighted, rooms he knew she might be in any one of the shadowy recesses.  It would have been a relief to hear her at the piano, or in conversation, and to know her attention was diverted.  None the less, he peered about for a glimpse of her, and strained his hearing for a sound of her voice.  But all was still and silent, except for the muffled footfall of the servant leading him to the library at the far end of the court.

If she had not moved out unexpectedly from behind a pillar, a little fluttering figure in a white frock, he could have kept his self-control.  If he had not come upon her in this sudden way, when she believed him in Rosario, she, too, would not have been caught at a disadvantage.  As it was, he stood still, as if awe-struck.  She gave a little cry, as if frightened.  It is certain that his movement of the arms was an automatic process, not dictated by any order of the brain; and the same may be said for the impulse which threw her on his breast.  If, after that, the rest was not silence, it was little more.  What he uttered and she replied was scarcely audible to either, though it was understood by both.  It was all over so quickly that the man-servant had barely thrown open the library door, and announced “Mr. Strange,” when Strange himself was on the threshold.