In a few moments her voice again sounded across the wires. ``Why, no, Bertram, Rosa says she hasn't been here since yesterday. Isn't she there somewhere about the house? Didn't you know where she was going?''
``Well, no, I didn't--else I shouldn't have been asking you,'' snapped the irate Bertram and hung up the receiver with most rude haste, thereby cutting off an astounded ``Oh, my grief and conscience!'' in the middle of it.
The next ten minutes Bertram spent in going through the whole house, from garret to basement.
Needless to say, he found nothing to enlighten him, or to soothe his temper. Four o'clock came, then half-past, and five. At five Bertram began to look for Eliza, but in vain.
At half-past five he watched for William; but William, too, did not come.
Bertram was pacing the floor now, nervously.
He was a little frightened, but more mortified and angry. That Billy should have allowed Miss Winthrop to call by appointment only to find no hostess, no message, no maid, even, to answer her ring--it was inexcusable! Impulsiveness, unconventionality, and girlish irresponsibility were all very delightful, of course--at times; but not now, certainly. Billy was not a girl any longer. She was a married woman. _Something_was due to him, her husband! A pretty picture he must have made on those steps, trying to apologize for a truant wife, and to laugh off that absurd Bessie Bailey's preposterous assertion at the same time! What would Miss Winthrop think? What could she think? Bertram fairly ground his teeth with chagrin, at the situation in which he found himself.
Nor were matters helped any by the fact that Bertram was hungry. Bertram's luncheon had been meager and unsatisfying. That the kitchen down-stairs still remained in silent, spotless order instead of being astir with the sounds and smells of a good dinner (as it should have been) did not improve his temper. Where Billy was he could not imagine. He thought, once or twice, of calling up some of her friends; but something held him back from that--though he did try to get Marie, knowing very well that she was probably over to the new house and would not answer.
He was not surprised, therefore, when he received no reply to his ring.
That there was the slightest truth in Bessie Bailey's absurd ``elopement'' idea, Bertram did not, of course, for an instant believe. The only thing that rankled about that was the fact that she had suggested such a thing, and that Miss Winthrop and those silly children had heard her. He recognized half of Bessie's friends as neighborhood youngsters, and he knew very well that there would be many a quiet laugh at his expense around various Beacon Street dinner-tables that night. At the thought of those dinner-tables, he scowled again. _He_ had no dinner-table--at least, he had no dinner on it!
Who the man might be Bertram thought he could easily guess. It was either Arkwright or Calderwell, of course; and probably that tiresome Alice Greggory was mixed up in it somehow.
He did wish Billy--
Six o'clock came, then half-past. Bertram was indeed frightened now, but he was more angry, and still more hungry. He had, in fact, reached that state of blind unreasonableness said to be peculiar to hungry males from time immemorial.
At ten minutes of seven a key clicked in the lock of the outer door, and William and Billy entered the hall.
It was almost dark. Bertram could not see their faces. He had not lighted the hall at all.
``Well,'' he began sharply, ``is this the way you receive your callers, Billy? I came home and found Miss Winthrop just leaving--no one here to receive her! Where've you been? Where's Eliza? Where's my dinner? Of course I don't mean to scold, Billy, but there is a limit to even my patience--and it's reached now. I can't help suggesting that if you would tend to your husband and your home a little more, and go gallivanting off with Calderwell and Arkwright and Alice Greggory a little less, that-- Where is Eliza, anyway?'' he finished irritably, switching on the lights with a snap.
There was a moment of dead silence. At Bertram's first words Billy and William had stopped short. Neither had moved since. Now William turned and began to speak, but Billy interrupted. She met her husband's gaze steadily.
``I will be down at once to get your dinner,''
she said quietly. ``Eliza will not come to-night.
Pete is dead.''
Bertram started forward with a quick cry.
``Dead! Oh, Billy! Then you were--_there!_Billy!''
But his wife did not apparently hear him. She passed him without turning her head, and went on up the stairs, leaving him to meet the sorrowful, accusing eyes of William.
