V
Twenty minutes later Clementine Rendall was hammering on Quiltan’s front door.
He had seen what to do. It had come to him very suddenly with all the force of a strong white light. He had made no attempt to comfort Eve—she had not needed that. Wynne Rendall’s note had done its work strangely. At the death of her hopes Eve had laughed a careless, wanton laugh. It was the laugh which gave him the idea.
“Mr. Quiltan—at once!” he said to the servant who opened the door.
“Well?” said Quiltan.
“You’re in love with Eve?”
“Yes.”
“Will you run away with her—now?”
“Now?”
“At once. Go and make love to her. Don’t be frightened, it will be quite easy. She knows. Then take her away.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“Have you got a car?”
“Yes.”
“Order it. Pack her inside and get away to Brighton.”
“Brighton?”
“I said so—the Cosmopolis.”
“But good God! he’s going there.”
“She doesn’t know that.”
“Have you gone mad?”
“Thought you wanted her to be happy?”
“I do.”
“Thought you were prepared to give her the chance.”
“Yes, but—”
“Then do as I say. Take her to Brighton. She’ll go—give her supper in the public room at 10.30. Don’t look so blank, man. After all, it’s ten to one against, and the odds are with you.”
Quiltan hesitated. “It’s so extraordinary.”
“Quiltan! if you refuse to do this thing I’ll shoot you—by God! I believe I will.”
Quiltan rang the bell.
“I want the car,” he said—“immediately—and—and a suit case.”