"Good-by, my dear," she whispered, with the tears in her eyes and in her
voice, and she clung to him a little and so let him go. She held the door
ajar until the sound of his footsteps had died away--and after that. For
she fancied that she heard them still, since, she so deeply wished to
hear them. Then with a breaking heart she went up the stairs to her room.
CHAPTER XXI
CHAYNE COMES TO CONCLUSIONS
"Six weeks ago I said good-by to the French Commission on the borders of
a great lake in Africa. A month ago I was still walking to the rail head
through the tangle of a forest's undergrowth," said Chayne, and he looked
about the little restaurant in King Street, St. James', as though to make
sure that the words he spoke were true. The bright lights, the red
benches against the walls, the women in their delicate gowns of lace, and
the jingle of harness in the streets without, made their appeal to one
who for the best part of a year had lived within the dark walls of a
forest. June had come round again, and Sylvia sat at his side.
"You shall tell me how these months have gone with you while we dine,"
said he. "Your letters told me nothing of your troubles."
"I did not mean them to," replied Sylvia.
"I guessed that, my dear. It was like you. Yet I would rather have
known."
Only a few hours before he had stood upon the deck of the Channel packet
and had seen the bows swing westward of Dover Castle and head toward the
pier.
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