Lacey looked at me, smiled woefully, and shrugged his shoulders. "Yes—and so he's lost her!" he said. He turned on his heel, and swung off into the darkness. I was left with a notion that we possessed a man more than we had counted in our neighborhood.
I made for the Priory—ventre-à-terre. Something had come home to Jenny when Fillingford tore up her letter and told her that she was not like Eleanor Lacey for nothing. Till then she had been negotiating—negotiating still, though ever so defiantly—still trying to find out what he thought, trying to see what view he took, even though she ostentatiously abstained from self-defense. At that action and at that speech she had frozen. "Probably not!" That was her acceptance of his action and his words. She had taken them for her answer—the tearing of the letter and his one bitter speech.
The big house lay hospitably open to the night—lights in the windows, lamps burning in the hall and illuminating the approach. Well, it was early evening yet—only nine o'clock. All might be safe and well within doors, and yet the doors be open. I ran up the steps in a passion of excitement.
As I reached the door, I was met—not by Loft nor by any of the men—but by the trembling figure of a woman. Chat had heard feet on the steps—she had been in waiting! My heart sank as lead. Whom had she been waiting for? Not for me!
"I did my best, I did my best," she whispered, catching me by the lapel of my greatcoat. "I kept him as long as I could. What happened?"
"The worst of luck. Is she here?"
"Here?" She seemed amazed. "No! Did you see her? Where have you left her?"
"Then she's gone," I said.
Chat stood where she was for a second, then dropped into the hall-porter's chair which was just behind her. She began to sob violently, rocking herself to and fro. "I tried, I tried, I tried!" she kept saying through her sobs.
I became suddenly aware that Loft had come into the hall. He appeared not to notice Chat. He stood there, grave and attentive, awaiting my orders.