had called about one o'clock, that Mr. Boyne had gone out with
him without leaving any message. The kitchen-maid did not even
know the caller's name, for he had written it on a slip of paper,
which he had folded and handed to her, with the injunction to
deliver it at once to Mr. Boyne.

Mary finished her luncheon, still wondering, and when it was
over, and Trimmle had brought the coffee to the drawing-room, her
wonder had deepened to a first faint tinge of disquietude. It
was unlike Boyne to absent himself without explanation at so
unwonted an hour, and the difficulty of identifying the visitor
whose summons he had apparently obeyed made his disappearance the
more unaccountable. Mary Boyne's experience as the wife of a
busy engineer, subject to sudden calls and compelled to keep
irregular hours, had trained her to the philosophic acceptance of
surprises; but since Boyne's withdrawal from business he had
adopted a Benedictine regularity of life. As if to make up for
the dispersed and agitated years, with their "stand-up" lunches
and dinners rattled down to the joltings of the dining-car, he
cultivated the last refinements of punctuality and monotony,
discouraging his wife's fancy for the unexpected; and declaring
that to a delicate taste there were infinite gradations of
pleasure in the fixed recurrences of habit.

Still, since no life can completely defend itself from the
unforeseen, it was evident that all Boyne's precautions would
sooner or later prove unavailable, and Mary concluded that he had
cut short a tiresome visit by walking with his caller to the
station, or at least accompanying him for part of the way.