“I merely want you to go with me to the registry office at Putney.”
“Is that what you came for?”
“That is what I came for.”
“My love!” she murmured.
Yet, with that cold and penetrating insight which women have, she saw clearly that, though Ilam’s idea of getting Carpentaria’s assistance in a moment of grave danger was doubtless quite serious, it was somewhat fanciful, and that Ilam’s professed reason for their instant marriage was also fanciful, and was not a real reason, but only an excuse. He merely wanted to marry her at once, that was all, and although his life was threatened, he thought little of that. She loved him the more.
“I can make the arrangements pretty quick,” said Ilam. “You will agree, my angel?”
And she nodded, and the compact was sealed. They heard a scurrying in the passages of the house.
“Juliette! Juliette!”
It was Carpentaria’s voice, and other voices mingled with it indistinctly—the voices of the servants. “Yes!” she answered loudly and, whispering to Ilam, “Get out of the window; whistle softly for your Soudanese. You can get on to the roof of the outhouse. He will help you.”
And noiselessly she opened the window, and Ilam, struck by her tremendous resourcefulness, passed out. She heard his low whistle, and then she ran to the door and into the passage.