but, after lingering for a few minutes, he went away. As he crossed the threshold, however, he paused uneasily.
"I say," he said, "Ffrench has come back."
"So I heard," Murdoch answered.
When he presented himself at the house in the evening, Haworth was alone as usual. Wines were on the table, and he seemed to have drunk deeply. He was flushed, and showed still the touch of uneasiness and excitement he had betrayed in the morning.
"I'm glad you've come," he said. "I'm out of sorts—or something."
He ended with a short laugh, and turned about to pour out a glass of wine. In doing so his hand trembled so that a few drops fell upon it. He shook them off angrily.
"What's up with me?" he said. He drained the glass at a draught, and filled it again.
"I saw Ffrench to-day," he said. "I saw them both."
"Both!" repeated Murdoch, wondering at him.
"Yes. She is with him."
"She!" and then remembering the episode of the handkerchief, he added, rather slowly, "You mean Miss Ffrench?"
Haworth nodded.
He was pushing his glass to and fro with shaking hands, his voice was hoarse and uncertain.
"I passed the carriage on the road," he said, "and Ffrench stopped it to speak to me. He's not much altered. I never saw her before. She's a woman now—and a handsome woman, by George!"
The last words broke from him as if he could not control them. He looked up at Murdoch, and as their eyes met he seemed to let himself loose.
