In a moment, she resumed.
"Do you remember, on the night when you first met me, a man
following us in the street?"
Waymark nodded.
"He was a friend of Alfred Bolter's, and sometimes we met him when
we went to the theatre, and such places. That is the only person I
ever hated from the first sight,--hated and dreaded in a way I
could not possibly explain."
"But why do you mention him?" asked Waymark. "What is his name?"
"His name is Edwards," returned Ida, pronouncing it as if the sound
excited loathing in her. "I had been living in this way for nearly
half-a-year, when one day this man called and came up to my
sitting-room. He said he had an appointment with Mr. Bolter, who
would come presently. I sat scarcely speaking, but he talked on.
Presently, Mr. Bolter came. He seemed surprised to find the other
man with me, and almost at once turned round and went out again.
Edwards followed him, saying to me that he wondered what it all
meant. The meaning was made clear to me a few hours after. There
came a short note from Mr. Bolter, saying that he had suspected that
something was wrong, and that under the circumstances he could of
course only say good-bye.
I can't say that I was sorry; I can't say that I was glad.
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