"Until to-day, when you need my help?" Warrisden interrupted.
"Yes, until to-day," Pamela repeated softly.
Warrisden walked over to the window and stood with his back towards her. The three tall poplars stood leafless up in front of him; the sky was heavy with grey clouds; the wind was roaring about the chimneys; and the roads ran with water. It was as cheerless a day as February can produce, but to Warrisden it had something of a summer brightness. The change for which he had hoped so long in vain had actually come to pass.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, turning again to the room.
"I want you to find Millie Stretton's husband," she replied; "and, at all costs, to bring him home again."
"Millie Stretton's husband?" he repeated, in perplexity.
"Yes. Don't you remember the couple who stepped out of the dark house in Berkeley Square and dared not whistle for a hansom--the truants?"
Warrisden was startled. "Those two!" he exclaimed. "Well, that's strange. On the very night when we saw them, you were saying that there was no road for you, no new road from Quetta to Seistan. I was puzzling my brains, too, as to how in the world you were to be roused out of your detachment; and there were the means visible all the time, perhaps--who knows?--ordained." He sat down again in his chair.
"Where shall I look for Mr. Stretton?" he asked.
"I don't know. He went away to New York, six months ago, to make a home for Millie and himself. He did not succeed, and he has disappeared."