"I should be very glad if I could think that, in spite of everything, I had found one here in this place—even although she can be a friend only in memory."
Mary paused for a moment, then gave him her hand. "I know you much better after to-night. My memory of you will be a kind one. Now to our work!"
"Yes—and thank you. I thank you more deeply than you imagine."
He gave her the candle and followed her to the passage.
"You know where the room is. I shall put the—the place—straight, and then bring him up. I shan't be many minutes—ten, perhaps. The cover's rather hard to fit."
Mary nodded from the top of the stairs. Strained by the events of the night, and by the talk to Beaumaroy, she was again near tears; her eyes were bright in the light of the candle, and told of nervous excitement. Beaumaroy went back into the parlour, on his way to the Tower. Suddenly he stopped and stood dead still, listening intently.
Mary busied herself upstairs, making her preparations with practised skill and readiness. Her agitation did not interfere with her work—there her training told—but of her inner mind it had full possession. She was afraid to be alone—there in that cottage. She longed for another clasp of that friendly hand. Well, he would come soon; but he must bring his burden with him. When she had finished what she had to do, she sat down and waited.
Beaumaroy waited too, outside the door leading to the Tower.