Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/127

 Jessica re-read Teck’s note as the taxicab shivered along the darkened streets.

I. T.

This note had broken up her dinner party before it was half over; she had been snatching at her moment of happiness when she received it. The wording of the note had made it imperative that she leave at once; as to the news that awaited her, she had no inkling. She knew only that Teck considered it of supreme importance that she return at once, and, obeying the fear that was always within her where this man was concerned, she was doing so. Nobody knew the extent of the fear and loathing that the sight of this man Ignace Teck held for her. This was something she held locked in her breast, always remembering that this man had become a loathly object through his devotion to her. He had sacrificed himself for her, and she considered it but just that she should give herself to him. True, the right sort of man would have refused to hold her in the bonds of gratitude—but he was Ignace Teck, who was wrapt in no such considerations.

He rose when she entered her living room, and addressed her ungraciously.

“Well, you took your time about coming, I must say.”

She regarded him calmly, as always.

“I came as rapidly as possible,” she intoned, “What is it you wanted?”

He paused for a moment before speaking, and made as if to place the stumps that were his hands on her shoulders. She evaded him with a single motion, as