The driver was asleep
inside the carriage. McLean dragged him out by the shoulder and
shouted an address to him. The cab bumped along over the rough
streets to an accompaniment of protests from its frantic
passenger.
The boy was white-lipped with wrath and fear. Peter's silence
that afternoon as to the state of affairs loomed large and
significant. He had thought once or twice that Peter was in love
with Harmony; he knew it now in the clearer vision of the moment.
He recalled things that maddened him: the dozen intimacies of the
little menage, the caress in Peter's voice when he spoke to the
girl, Peter's steady eyes in the semi-gloom of the salon while
Harmony played.
At a corner they must pause for the inevitable regiment. McLean
cursed, bending out to see how long the delay would be. Peter had
been gone for half an hour, perhaps, but Peter would walk. If he
could only see the girl first, talk to her, tell her what she
would be doing by remaining--
He was there at last, flinging across the courtyard like a
madman. Peter was already there; his footprints were fresh in the
slush of the path. The house door was closed but not locked.
McLean ran up the stairs. It was barely twilight outside, but the
staircase well was dark. At the upper landing he was compelled to
fumble for the bell.
Peter admitted him. The corridor was unlighted, but from the
salon came a glow of lamplight. McLean, out of breath and
furious, faced Peter.
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