CHAPTER XIV



Mostyn reached the city at five o'clock in the morning. The sun was
just rising over the chimneys and dun roofs of the buildings. He lived
in the house of his widowed sister, Mrs. John Perkins Moore, in a
quiet but fashionable street, and thither he went in one of the
numbered cabs which, in charge of slouching negro drivers, meet all
trains at the big station.

At his sister's house no one was stirring; even the servants were
still abed. He was vaguely glad of this, for he was in no mood for
conversation of any sort. Having a latchkey to the front door, he
admitted himself and went up to his room at the top of the stairs.
Should he lie down and try to snatch a little sleep? he reflected, for
his journey and mental state had quite deprived him of rest. Throwing
off his coat and vest and removing his collar, necktie, and shoes, he
sank on his bed and closed his eyes. But to no effect. His brain was
throbbing; his every nerve was as taut as the strings of a violin;
cold streams of despair coursed through his veins. For the thousandth
time he saw before him the revengeful face of a woman--a face now full
of fury--a face which he had once thought rarely pretty, rarely coy,
gentle, and submissive. What could be done? Oh! what could be done?

He heard the iceman stop at the door, curiously noted his slow,