The path took a sharp turn. He stepped noiselessly on to the grass border, and crept round, with wonderful agility for a man of his size. The foliage gradually thinned, and kneeling down he was able to listen and peer through until the next flash should reveal what lay beyond.
The whisper thrilled with indescribable passion.
"I love you. You are my body, my soul, my god, my all. I love you—I love you—I love you."
It was the voice of Christine Manderson.
Not a tremor escaped the listener. Parting the leaves with a hand as steady as the ground itself, he waited for the light.
"I have no world but you—no thought but you. I want nothing but you ... you ... you." A sob broke her voice.
"Go," the answer was almost inaudible in its tenseness. "Go—and forget. I have nothing for you."
The lightning came. In a small open space on the other side of the hedge it illuminated the wild tortured face of Christine Manderson. And standing before her, gripping both her hands and holding her away from him—John Tranter.
She struggled to bring herself closer to him.
"I thought you were dead," she gasped.