"I hope we may meet soon," said Anstice heartily, and Major Carstairs escorted his guest to the steps of the Club, where he took a cordial farewell of him and stood watching the tall figure swing along Piccadilly with the stride of an athlete.
"So that's the fellow there was all the 'gup' about." Major Carstairs had heard the story of Hilda Ryder's death discussed a good many times during his sojourn in India. "A thoroughly decent chap, I should say, and it's deuced hard luck on him to go through life with a memory of that sort rankling in his soul. Ah, well, we all have our private memories--ghosts which haunt us and will not be laid; and at least there is no disgrace in that story of his. At the worst it could only be called a miscalculation--a mistake. But what if my mistake has been a more grievous one--what if Chloe is innocent and I have misjudged her cruelly? If that should be so," said Major Carstairs, "then my ghost will never be laid. The man who shot Hilda Ryder will be forgiven for his too hasty deed. But for a mistake such as mine there could be no forgiveness."
And as he turned to re-enter the club his face looked suddenly haggard and old.