Conolly returned from Glasgow a little before eight on Monday evening. There was no light in the window when he entered the garden. Miss McQuinch opened the door before he reached it.
“What!” he said. “Going the moment I come in!” Then, seeing her face by the hall lamp, he put down his bag quickly, and asked what the matter was.
“I dont know whether anything is the matter. I am very glad you have returned. Come into the drawing-room: I dont want the servants to hear us talking.”
“There is no light here,” he said, following her in. “Is it possible you have been waiting in the dark?”
He lit a candle, and was about to light a lamp when she exclaimed impatiently, “Oh, I did not notice it: what does it matter? Do let the lamp alone, and listen to me.” He obeyed, much amused at her irritation.
“Where has Marian gone to?” she asked.
“Is she out?” he said, suddenly grave. “You forget that I have come straight from Glasgow.”
“I have been here since three o’clock. Marian sent me a note not to come on Sunday—that she should be out and that you were away. But they tell me that she was at home all yesterday, except for two hours when she was out with Sholto. She packed her trunks in the evening, and went away with them. She told the cabman to drive to Euston. I dont know what it all means; and I have been half distracted waiting here for you. I thought you would never come. There is a note for you on your dressing-table.”
He pursed his lips a little and looked attentively at her, but said nothing.
“Wont you go and open it?” she said anxiously. “It must contain some explanation.”