He nodded, walked swiftly toward his brougham, opened the door and entered.
I remember so well that last sight of him--of his long, slim figure bending down for the entrance, woefully solitary, woefully weighted; remember so well the gleam of the carriage panels reflecting the murky light of the bare London terminus, the attitude of the coachman stiffly reining back the horse; the thin hand that reached out, a gleam of white, to turn the gleaming handle.

There was something intimately suggestive of the man in the motion of that hand, in its tentative outstretching, its gentle, half-persuasive--almost theoretic--grasp of the handle.

The pleasure of its friendly pressure on my shoulder carried me over some minutes of solitude; its weight on my body removing another from my mind.

I had feared that my ineffective disclosure had chilled what of regard he had for me.

He had said nothing, his manner had said nothing, but I had feared.