An instinct of furtiveness, newly awakened by the suggestion of Christine Fanshaw's letter, had led Grantley Imason to send no word of his coming. He hired a fly at the station, and drove over the downs to Milldean. It was a wild evening. A gale had been blowing from the south-west all day, and seemed to be increasing in violence. A thick rain was driven in sharp spats against the closed windows. The old horse toiled slowly along, while the impatient man chafed helplessly inside.
At last he stopped at Old Mill House and dismissed the carriage. Mrs. Mumple's servant-girl came to the door, and said her mistress was up at his house, and was, she thought, to stay there all night. Grantley nodded, and began to trudge up the hill. He had no thought but to seek and find Sibylla. It was now between seven and eight, and dusk had fallen.
He saw a light in the dining-room windows. He walked into the hall and took off his hat. A servant saw him and ran to help him. Saying briefly that he would want some dinner, he went into the dining-room. Mrs. Mumple sat there alone over a chop.
"You come home, Mr. Imason!" she exclaimed. "Sibylla didn't expect you, did she?"
"No, I didn't expect to come. I didn't think I could get away, and it wasn't worth wiring. Where is Sibylla?"
"How unlucky! She's gone away—to Fairhaven. She didn't expect you. She's to sleep the night there."
He came to the table and poured himself out a glass of sherry. He was calm and quiet in his manner.
"To sleep at Fairhaven? Why, who's she going to stay with?"
"Mrs. Valentine. You know her? She lives by the church—a red house with creepers."
Mrs. Valentine was, as he knew, an old, but not an intimate, acquaintance. He shot a keen glance at Mrs. Mumple's simple broad face.