Returning at tea-time, she brought with her a first-class ticket to Mafeking, and another from Mafeking to Buluwayo, a strong rope, a second-hand tweed ulster suitable for a slender youth of medium height, and a slouch hat. These last, with the breeches and top-boots, were to constitute Loree’s travelling-kit.
They “dressed the part” and gravely rehearsed it. Mrs Temple’s mirror, that had once given back lovely visions in diaphanous draperies and sparkling jewels, now reflected something uncommonly like a seedy youth of the type that relations get rid of to South Africa and hope they’ll never see again. What could be seen of the face beneath the slouch hat was not prepossessing when Valeria had finished with it. The complexion was sallow and distinctly spotty, the eyes slightly inflamed. A darkness on the upper lip might have been the promise of a moustache or merely dirt. What the hand of Mrs Cork found to do, she did well.
Loree gazed with disgust at the odious person in the glass. It seemed impossible she could ever be herself again. But Valeria coached her in the art of getting rid of facial disguise in ten minutes. That was the secret contained in the two railway tickets. The lightning change had to occur in a lavatory dressing-room sometime in the early morning before the train reached Mafeking. During the short wait at the famous little Bechuanaland town, no one was likely to note the disappearance of a bleary-eyed youth or connect it with the advent of a veiled lady who would continue the journey to Buluwayo as Mrs Temple.
Getting away from the hotel without being seen and reported to Quelch was a more difficult matter, but Valeria had laid careful plans. It would be dusk—the hour when people were dressing for dinner. No one would be likely to be near the corner of the balcony opposite Valeria’s room or in the obscure fernery on the stoop below. The corner had a strong post to the ground, against which Loree could support herself when being let down. That was what the rope was for.
“And if you meet any one who wants to know your business, give them this note for me, and then make tracks,” said Valeria. “You will easily get a cab to the station.”
She had thought of everything. Her only regret was that she could not be at the station, too. But it had seemed wiser to make an appointment with Quelch for that hour. To that end, she had written the note at midday, underlining the words: “particularly personal matter.” She desired that he would realise the matter to be connected with Loree Temple, and, even as she anticipated, a prompt reply came, and hoped she would “honour him by an interview in his private sitting-room” at the hour she mentioned, if such an arrangement suited her. She grimaced at the courteous words which seemed to her unnecessary irony, but the plan indeed suited her—perfectly.
At the hour in which she knocked upon Heseltine Quelch’s door the work was done. She had kissed Loraine Loree upon her darkened lips and bade her Godspeed, had launched her from the balcony, and seen the boyish silhouette disappear through the garden. Even as she listened for an answer from the room within, she heard the harsh scream and “chug-chug” of a departing train, and knew that, if all was well, Mrs Temple was passing out of Kimberley and out of her life for ever.
Quelch was sitting at a table, holding his hands before him as though clutching something. But the moment she entered, he rose abruptly and came towards her with a sort of violence. She saw that his hands were empty, and thought, by his strange face, that he meant to kill her. Brave as she was, she recoiled from him. That pulled him up sharp. He stood stammering, almost gibbering incoherent words at her. She was certain now that he knew. There was something horribly moving in the desolation of his eyes. It was the expression of a fierce creature of the wilds wounded to the death. She noticed suddenly that he was no longer young. His shoulders stooped; there was silver in his hair.
“Did he care so much?” she thought amazed, and almost her heart felt pity for him. She knew what it was to love and be robbed. In a moment, he succeeded in getting control of himself and spoke clearly. Then she realised that though he was no longer incoherent, she did not understand him. What he said was:
“It is no wonder you recoil from me—hate me. I can only say to you that I grieve for you with all that is left of my heart—and—I thank you.”