From the telegraph office he took a hansom to Euston Station, and just succeeded in catching the express to Ashbourne.
To an ordinary observer, the viscount was merely a gentleman of leisure. His face bore no traces of the inward storms that had raged so recently. He smoked a fragrant cheroot, and consulted a timetable while the train was whirling him onwards, now and again making pencil notes in a small memorandum book.
This done, he tossed the timetable aside, and gave himself up to reflection until the engine slowed into Ashbourne.
To his relief, if not actual pleasure, Lady Gaynor herself was at the station to meet him with her pony carriage.
“This is thoughtful of you,” he told her. “It may save much time. What have you to say to me?”
She touched the ponies lightly, and smiled at him strangely.
“So you have failed absolutely?”
“Absolutely! To make matters worse, Annesley is pretty much in his usual form again, and has discovered her retreat. I was fool enough to blackguard him in the heat of my jealous passion. Now, then, it is success or ruin for both. I shall not attempt to face things out, and if we lose there will be an inquest.”
He looked gloomily away, and Lady Gaynor’s face became pale under her paint. Like all women, she dreaded violence and death.
“Now, then, what are we to do?” he concluded. “Don’t drive to the lodge. I shall feel that I am being stifled. We can talk safely here, and you can take me back to the station after a while. I must catch the next up-train.”