She ran swiftly down the stairs and entered the office. The overworked
clerk was busy and querulously curt. These women were always asking such
idiotic questions. Yes, Mr. Barker had just gone.
"With Mrs. Barker in the buggy?" asked Mrs. Horncastle.
"No, as he came--on horseback. Mrs. Barker left HALF AN HOUR AGO."
"Alone?"
This was apparently too much for the long-suffering clerk. He lifted
his eyes to the ceiling, and then, with painful precision, and accenting
every word with his pencil on the desk before him, said deliberately,
"Mrs. George Barker--left--here--with her--escort--the--man
she--was--always--asking--for--in--the--buggy--at exactly--9.35." And he
plunged into his work again.
Mrs. Horncastle turned, ran up the staircase, re-entered the
sitting-room, and slamming the door behind her, halted in the centre of
the room, panting, erect, beautiful, and menacing. And she was alone in
this empty room--this deserted hotel. From this very room her husband
had left her with a brutality on his lips. From this room the fool
and liar she had tried to warn had gone to her ruin with a swindling
hypocrite. And from this room the only man in the world she ever cared
for had gone forth bewildered, wronged, and abused, and she knew now she
could have kept and comforted him.
CHAPTER IV.
When Philip Demorest left the stagecoach at the cross-roads he turned
into the only wayside house, the blacksmith's shop, and, declaring his
intention of walking over to Hymettus, asked permission to leave his
hand-bag and wraps until they could be sent after him.
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