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"Why should you recite to me from the guide-book about the University of Upsala?" "It appears to be most interesting, and quaint," replied Luttrell hastily. "Then we might hire a motor-car and run out there to luncheon. To-morrow! Just you and I." "No." Harry Luttrell exclaimed suddenly and Stella Croyle drew back. Her face clouded. She had won the first round, but victory brought her no ease.
He took a sheet of foolscap, a blotting pad, a heavy inkstand, and a quill pen Sir Chichester never used anything but a quill pen to the big table in the middle of the hall, and wrote in a fair, round hand: "The case of Mrs. Croyle." and looked at his work and thought it good. "It looks quite like a cause célèbre, doesn't it?" he said buoyantly.
It was already half-past four. He had not the faintest hope that Luttrell would come. Stella had no doubt pressed him to come. She had probably been a little importunate. Luttrell's promise was an excuse, just an excuse to be rid of her nothing more. "Luttrell has probably a great deal to do on this last afternoon," he suggested. "Of course, he won't be able to stay long," Stella Croyle agreed.
Croyle. I hope you will meet him some day at Rackham Park." Sir Chichester trotted away to greet the manager of the Daily Harpoon, who was at that moment shaking hands with Hardiman. "I congratulate you," said Stella Croyle, as she gave him her hand. "Thank you. So you know Sir Chichester well?" "His wife has been a friend of mine for a long time." Her eyes twinkled.
"I hadn't an idea that we should find her here," said Hillyard. "Lady Splay told me so very clearly that Mrs. Croyle always timed her visits to avoid a party." Hillyard was a little troubled lest he should be thought by his friend to have concurred in a plot to bring about this meeting. "I suppose that Hardiman told her you were coming to Rackham Park.
But she was dressed as she had been dressed the evening before when he had left her; the curtains in the room were drawn, and the electric lights on the writing-table and the walls were still burning. The bed had not been slept in. Stella Croyle rose and turned towards her visitors. She tottered a little as she stood up, and her eyes were dazed.
"The week after the eights. We rowed down to Kennington Island in a racing pair, had supper there " "Yes, yes," Stella Croyle interrupted. Oh, how dense men could be to be sure! What in the world did it matter, how or when the secret was told? "I beg your pardon," said Hillyard. "But really it does matter a little.
Harry Luttrell had said his last word concerning Stella Croyle. Of that he was sure and was glad, though Stella's tear-stained face would rise up between his eyes and the water of the Nile. Sooner or later Harry Luttrell would come home, bearing his sheaves, and then he would marry amongst his own people; and a new generation of Luttrells would hold their commissions in the Clayfords.
The vision remained with him after the last strains of music had died away, and faded slowly. He waked to the lights and clamour of the restaurant and turned to Stella Croyle. "Stella," he began, and "I know," she interrupted in a small voice.
"It was for your health?" Hillyard did not answer directly. "My lungs have always been my trouble," he said. Hardiman bent towards Stella Croyle. "I think our new friend has had a curious life, Stella. He should interest you." Stella Croyle replied with a shrewd look towards the Spaniard. "At present he is interesting Escobar. One would say Escobar was suspicious lest Mr.
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