He did not answer, but stood looking at her with a gaze which seemed to envelop her, to pierce her through and through. Drysdale felt the perspiration start across his forehead; he wished to cry out, but could not…
A door at the farther end of the hall opened and Delroy came in. The bonds loosened and Drysdale fled back to his room. He needed to compose himself.
Mrs. Delroy did not come down to dinner, pleading a headache, and after the meal was over, Delroy carried Tremaine off to the library for a last talk over the details of the railroad enterprise. They intended going into New York in the morning for an interview with certain capitalists that would be crucial, and they needed to arrange their plan of attack.
Drysdale, left to himself, threw away his cigar and went straightway to seek Grace Croydon. He found her sitting before the fire in the hall, gazing into it, her head in her hands. She did not hear his approach, and for a moment, as he gazed down at her, he doubted whether he had really witnessed that strange interview of an hour before. Had he not rather dreamed it? Was it not merely a wild imagining? He passed his hand before his eyes and dropped into the chair beside her.
She started at the sound, turned, saw him, and smiled. But it was not the smile that had greeted him the night before; it was not from the heart; it did not reveal, it dissembled. He saw the change and trembled as he guessed its meaning. Then he put hesitation behind him.
