“All right, now.
Hurry right back.”
“Any answer?”
“I guess not.”
The boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings.
Now he had done it.
There was no use speculating over that.
He was beaten for to-night and he might just as well make the best of it.
But, oh, the wretchedness of being forced this way!
He could see her meeting the boy at the door and smiling sardonically.
She would take the envelope and know that she had triumphed.
If he only had that letter back he wouldn’t send it.
He breathed heavily and wiped the moisture from his face.
For relief, he arose and joined in conversation with a few friends who were drinking.
He tried to get the interest of things about him, but it was not to be.
All the time his thoughts would run out to his home and see the scene being therein enacted.
All the time he was wondering what she would say when the boy handed her the envelope.
In about an hour and three-quarters the boy returned.
He had evidently delivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no sign of taking anything out of his pocket.
“Well?” said Hurstwood.
“I gave it to her.”
“My wife?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any answer?”
“She said it was high time.”
Hurstwood scowled fiercely.
There was no more to be done upon that score that night.
He went on brooding over his situation until midnight, when he repaired again to the Palmer House.
He wondered what the morning would bring forth, and slept anything but soundly upon it.
Next day he went again to the office and opened his mail, suspicious and hopeful of its contents.
No word from Carrie.
Nothing from his wife, which was pleasant.
The fact that he had sent the money and that she had received it worked to the ease of his mind, for, as the thought that he had done it receded, his chagrin at it grew less and his hope of peace more.
He fancied, as he sat at his desk, that nothing would be done for a week or two. Meanwhile, he would have time to think.
This process of THINKING began by a reversion to Carrie and the arrangement by which he was to get her away from Drouet.
How about that now?
His pain at her failure to meet or write him rapidly increased as he devoted himself to this subject.
He decided to write her care of the West Side Post-office and ask for an explanation, as well as to have her meet him.
The thought that this letter would probably not reach her until Monday chafed him exceedingly.
He must get some speedier method — but how?
He thought upon it for a half-hour, not contemplating a messenger or a cab direct to the house, owing to the exposure of it, but finding that time was slipping away to no purpose, he wrote the letter and then began to think again.
The hours slipped by, and with them the possibility of the union he had contemplated.
He had thought to be joyously aiding Carrie by now in the task of joining her interests to his, and here it was afternoon and nothing done.
Three o’clock came, four, five, six, and no letter.
The helpless manager paced the floor and grimly endured the gloom of defeat.
He saw a busy Saturday ushered out, the Sabbath in, and nothing done.
All day, the bar being closed, he brooded alone, shut out from home, from the excitement of his resort, from Carrie, and without the ability to alter his condition one iota.
It was the worst Sunday he had spent in his life.
In Monday’s second mail he encountered a very legal-looking letter, which held his interest for some time.
It bore the imprint of the law offices of McGregor, James and Hay, and with a very formal