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Page 76
Jack was too hungry to be sentimental. He sat down in one of the
high-backed compartments, and, glancing indifferently at a man sitting
opposite to him, he recognized the editor of the _Illustrated Universe_.
"By Jove!" Hunston cried, in surprise, "you're the very chap I want to
see. Where have you been hiding yourself, Vernon? I searched for you
high and low."
"I've not been out of town," said Jack. "I intended to look you up, or
to send my address, but one thing and another interfered--"
"Yes, I understand," Hunston interrupted. "London is fresh to a man who
has just come back from India. I hope you've had your fling, and are
ready to do some work."
"As soon as you like," Jack replied.
"I'm glad to hear it--I was afraid you had given me the slip altogether.
I want some of your sketches enlarged to double-page drawings, and I am
thinking of issuing a photographic album of the snap-shots you took on
the frontier."
"That's not a bad idea. I'll come in to-morrow."
"I'll expect you, then. You haven't a studio at present?"
"No."
"Well, I can give you a room on the premises to work in. By the bye,
there is a letter for you at the office. It came this morning."
"I'll get it to-morrow. I don't suppose it's important."
"It is in a woman's handwriting," said Hunston, with a smile.
"A woman?" exclaimed Jack. "Where does it come from--England or abroad?"
"London postmark," was the reply.
Jack changed color, and a lump seemed to rise in his throat.
"It must be from Madge," he thought. "But why would she write to me?"
"If you would like the letter to-night--" Hunston went on.
"If it's no trouble," Jack replied, eagerly.
"None whatever. I must go back to the office, anyway."
Jack was impatient to start, and he no longer felt hungry. He ordered
a light supper, however, and ate it hurriedly. He finished at the same
time as Hunston, and they left the "Cheese" and plunged into the outer
fog and crowds. A short walk brought them to the _Universe_ building,
which was just closing its doors to the public. Hunston turned up the
gas in his office.
"Here you are," he said, taking a letter from a pigeon-hole over the
desk.
Jack looked at it sharply, and disappointment banished hope. He scowled
savagely, and an half-audible oath slipped from his lips. He had
recognized Diane's peculiar penmanship. She was in London, contrary
to promise, and had dared to write to him.
"Sit down," said Hunston. "Have a cigar?"
"No; I'm off," Jack answered dully, as he thrust the letter into his
pocket unopened.
Hunston regarded him anxiously.
"Ill see you to-morrow?" he asked. "You know it's rather important, and
I'll want one of the double pages by next Wednesday."
"I'll turn up," Jack promised, in an absent tone.
With that he hastened away, and as he trod the Strand his brain was in a
confused whirl, and he was oblivious of the frothing life about him. He
groped across Waterloo Bridge in the fog, and looked wistfully toward
the black river. He did not care to read the letter yet. It was enough
for the present to know that his wife had broken her word and returned
to London, doubtless with the intention of demanding more money. He
vowed that she should not have a penny. Fierce anger and resentment rose
in his heart as he remembered, with anguish as keen as it had ever been,
the blow Diane had dealt him.
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