When he resumed the normal usages of life once more and reappeared
downstairs, he found that the Brabazons and Lady Doreen Neville and her
mother had all gone their several ways. They were the only people with whom
he had any acquaintance, and in an odd, indefinable way he missed their
presence. He spent almost all his time at the Casino, working out and
experimenting with different systems. He had come to no decision as to how
he should order his future life, and until he had formulated some scheme he
found that he could only stop the hideous treadmill of his thoughts by
focussing his whole attention on the crazy gyrations of the spinning ball.
And then one day, about a month later, a letter was put into his hand,
bearing the Silverquay postmark. The writing was unfamiliar, and its
unfamiliarity woke in him a sudden horrible fear and dread of what the
letter might contain. Had some one written to tell him--what Ann could no
longer write and tell him herself? He slit the envelope and his eyes raced
down the lines of the sheet it had enclosed.
"_Dear Mr. Coventry_," ran the letter, written in Lady Susan's
characteristically big, generous hand. "_Probably you'll think me
an interfering old woman.
Pages:
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389