His wife was
already receiving the adieus of their guests. She was smouldering
ominously, uncertain where the blame lay, but certain there was blame.
Criminal blame! I could read as much in her narrowed eyes as she
tried for aplomb with her guests.
My own leave I took unobtrusively. I knew our strangely missing guest
was to depart by the six-two train, and I strolled toward the station.
A block away I halted, waiting. It had been a time of waiting. The
moments passed. I heard the whistle of the approaching train. At the
same moment I was startled by the approach of a team that I took to be
running away.
I saw it was the carriage of the Pierce chap and that he was driving
with the most abandoned recklessness. His passengers were the
Honourable George, Cousin Egbert, and our missing guest. The great
artist as they passed me seemed to feel a vast delight in his wild
ride. He was cheering on the driver. He waved his arms and himself
shouted to the maddened horses. The carriage drew up to the station
with the train, and the three descended.
The artist hurriedly shook hands in the warmest manner with his
companions, including the Pierce chap, who had driven them. He
beckoned to his secretary, who was waiting with his bags. He mounted
the steps of the coach, and as the train pulled out he waved
frantically to the three.
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