And the icy whisper of reason blew into her mental ear, the ugly word: "Money."
He opened the door for her, and without another word, she passed out into the dark night. Only when she reached the tiny gate at the end of the flagged path, did she realize that he was walking with her.
"I can find my way alone through the woods," she said coldly. "I came alone."
"It was earlier then," he rejoined blandly, "and I prefer to see you safely as far as the park."
And they walked on side by side in silence. Overhead the melancholy drip of moisture falling from leaf to leaf, and from leaf to the ground, was the only sound that accompanied their footsteps. Sue shivered beneath her damp cloak; but she walked as far away from him as the width of the woodland path allowed. He seemed absorbed in his own thoughts and not to notice how she shrank from the slightest contact with him.
At the park gate he paused, having opened it for her to pass through.
"I must bid you good-night here, Suzanne," he said lightly, "there may be footpads about and I must place your securities away under lock and key. I may be absent a few days for that purpose. . . . London, you know," he added vaguely.
Then as she made no comment:
"I will arrange for our next meeting," he said, "anon, there will be no necessity to keep our marriage a secret, but until I give you permission to speak of it, 'twere better that you remained silent on that score."
She contrived to murmur: