He had missed Quarrier once to-day when he had been keyed to the encounter. Was he going to miss him again through sheer terror? Besides, was not Quarrier a coward? Besides, was it not his own money? Had he not been vilely swindled by a pretended friend? Urging, lashing himself into a heavy, shuffling motion, he emerged from the porte-cochere and lurched off down the street. No time to think now, no time for second thought, for hesitation, for weakness. He had waited too long already. He had waited ten minutes, instead of five. Was Quarrier going to escape again? Was he going to get out of the house before-Fumbling with his latch-key, but with sense enough left to make no noise, he let himself in, passed silently through the reception-hall and up to the drawing-room floor, where for a second he stood listening. Then something of the perverted sportsman sent the blood quivering into his veins. He had him! He had run him down! The game was at bay.
An inrush of exhilaration steadied him. He laid his hand on the banister and mounted, gloves and hat-brim crushed in the other hand. When he entered the room he pretended to see only Lydia.
"Hello, little girl!" he said, laughing, "are you surprised to--"
At that moment he caught sight of Quarrier, and the start he gave was genuine enough. Never had he seen in a man's visage such white concentration of anger.
"Quarrier!" he stammered, for his acting was becoming real enough to supplant art.
Quarrier had risen; his narrowing eyes moved from Mortimer to Lydia, then reverted to the man in the combination.
"Rather unexpected, isn't it?" said Mortimer, staring at Quarrier.
"Is it?" returned Quarrier in a low voice.
"I suppose so," sneered Mortimer. "Did you expect to find me here?"
"No. Did you expect to find me?" asked the other, with emphasis unmistakable.
"What do you mean?" demanded Mortimer hoarsely. "What the devil do you mean by asking me if I expected to find you here? If I had, I'd not have travelled down to your office to-day to see you; I'd have come here for you. Naturally people suppose that an engaged man is likely to give up this sort of thing."
Quarrier, motionless, white to the lips, turned his eyes from one to the other.
"It doesn't look very well, does it?" asked Mortimer; and he stood there, smiling, danger written all over him. "It's beginning rather early," he continued, with a sneer. "Most engaged men with a conscience wait until they're married before they return to the gay and frivolous. But here you are, it seems, handsome, jolly, and irresistible as ever!"