From the cupboard he took a bottle of liqueur, and, pouring out a small
glassful, drank it off eagerly. As he put the bottle away, he said
again, in an abstracted fashion, "Kathleen!"

Then, seating himself at the table, as if with an effort towards energy,
he rang a bell. A clerk entered. "Ask Mr. Wantage to come for a
moment," he said. "Mr. Wantage has gone to the church--to the wedding,"
was the reply.

"Oh, very well. He will be in again this afternoon?"

"Sure to, sir."

"Just so. That will do."

The clerk retired, and Charley, rising, unlocked a drawer, and taking out
some books and papers, laid them on the table. Intently, carefully, he
began to examine them, referring at the same time to a letter which had
lain open at his hand while he had been sitting there. For a quarter of
an hour he studied the books and papers, then, all at once, his fingers
fastened on a point and stayed. Again he read the letter lying beside
him. A flush crimsoned his face to his hair--a singular flush of shame,
of embarrassment, of guilt--a guilt not his own. His breath caught in
his throat.

"Billy!" he gasped. "Billy, by God!"