One can readily see that no deviation from this routine confronted Gerald Fosland this morning. He had had his plunge and his breakfast, his mail and his paper laid before him, and yet there was something ghastly about the feel of the house. It was as if some one were dead! Gerald Fosland made as radical a deviation from his daily life as William had done. He left his mail unopened, after a glance at the postmark; he left his paper unread, and he started for his canter in the Park a full half hour early!
He arrived at the Papyrus Club a full half hour early, and sat in the dimmest corner of the library, taking himself seriously in hand. Somehow, he was not quite fit, not quite up to himself. It seemed desperately lonely in the Club. There were plenty of fellows there, but they were merely nodders. They were not the ones who came at his hour. He brightened a shade as Tompkinson came in five minutes early. He was about to wonder if all the world had started a trifle early this morning, when he remembered that, ordinarily on his arrival, he found Tompkinson there. He could not analyse why this should be such a relief to him, unless it was that he found mere normality comforting to-day.
“Good morning, Fosland,” drawled Tompkinson. “Beautiful weather.”
“Yes,” said Gerald, and they sat together in voiceless satisfaction until Connors came in.
“Good morning,” observed Connors. “Beautiful weather.”
“Yes,” replied Fosland and Tompkinson, and Connors sat.
“Depressing affair of Prymm’s,” presently remarked Tompkinson, calling a boy for the customary appetiser.
“Rotten,” agreed Connors, with some feeling. All his ancestors had been Irish, and it never quite gets out of the blood.
“I haven’t heard,” suggested Fosland, with the decent interest one club-fellow should have in another.
“Wife went to Italy with the sculptor who made her portrait; Carmelli, that’s the name. Intense looking fellow, you know. Prymm had him here at the club.”
“You don’t tell me.” Gerald felt an unusual throb of commiseration for Prymm. “Mighty decent chap.”
“Yes, Prymm’s all cut up about it,” went on Tompkinson. “Has a sort of notion he should kill the fellow, or something of the kind.”
“Why?” demanded Connors, with some feeling again. Connors was a widower, and Fosland suddenly remembered, though he could not trace a connection leading to the thought, that Connors had not been a frequenter of the club until after the death of his wife. “Prymm’s a thoroughly decent chap, but he was so wasteful.”