The imminence of the danger, both to her and to himself, was emphasized by this latest precaution. She had not dared to admit him to the house or even to acknowledge his presence, until she had made certain that he, in his turn, was not followed.
This thought, that he might be followed, filled him with an entirely new sensation; it peopled every clump of gorse and bed of bracken with possible unseen enemies. The rustling of the wind, the cry of a sea-bird, made him turn alertly, scanning with suspicion every hollow and mound of the wild, deserted landscape. It seemed unwise to allow his actions to announce his intentions too plainly. What his intentions were he was not very certain. His immediate inclination was to shake himself free from the whole mysterious complication.
Continuing his ramble, he assumed a careless gait, descending the further side of the promontory and bearing always slightly inland, so that his course might lead back eventually to the road from which he had departed. As dusk was gathering, he found himself entering an abandoned military camp. The bare hutments, with their dusty windows and padlocked doors, stretched away in seeming endless avenues of ghostly silence. The Maple Leaf, painted on walls and sign-boards, explained the village boy's reference to Canadian soldiers. He had reached the heart of it, when he was possessed by the overpowering sensation that human eyes were gazing at him. Pulling himself up, he glanced back across his shoulder, crooking his arm to ward off a blow. Realizing what he was doing, he relaxed and stared deliberately about him. Nothing! No sign of life! Yet the certainty remained that human eyes were watching.
“Nerves!” he muttered contemptuously.
It was dark when, leaving the camp, he struck the road. Stars were coming out. Far away along the coast the distant lights of a harbor blinked and twinkled. He hurried his steps. His mind was made up. He would get something to eat in Seafold, discover a garage, hire a car and be back in London by midnight. To confirm his will in this decision, he began making plans for the morrow.
To enter the town he had to pass the house. As its bulk gathered shape, his feet moved more slowly. Long before he came opposite it, he had caught the fragrance of the myrtle in its hedges. The windows which looked his way were shrouded. He paused for a moment outside the rustic gate. He was saying good-by to adventure. He was too old. His season for pardonable folly was ended. The prose of life had claimed him.
Prolonging the pretense of temptation, he pushed open the gate. A hand touched his—a woman's. The desire to play safe faded. Weakly capitulating, he allowed himself to be led up the path and across the shadowy threshold. The door of the darkened house closed behind him. She was slipping the bolts into place.
VIII
He listened. He could not see her face—only the blurred outline of her figure. Except for the sound of her movements, the silence was unbroken. At the end of a passage, leading from the hall, a streak of gold escaped along the carpet.
“Santa!”