“You are leaving, then?” she asked quickly.
He nodded.
“Mr. Fentolin is in a strange humour,” she went on, a moment later, after she had struck the final chords of her song. “There are things going on around us which no one can understand. I think that one of his schemes has miscarried; he has gone too far. He suspects you; I cannot tell you why or how. If only you would go away!”
“What about Esther?” he asked quietly.
“You must leave her,” she cried, with a little catch in her throat. “Gerald has broken away. Esther and I must carry still the burden.”
She motioned him to go. He touched her fingers for a moment.
“Mrs. Fentolin,” he said, “I have been a good many years making up my mind. Now that I have done so, I do not think that any one will keep Esther from me.”
She looked at him a little pitifully, a little wistfully. Then, with a shrug of the shoulders, she turned round to the piano and recommenced to play. Hamel took his coat and hat from a servant who was waiting in the hall and passed out into the night.
He walked briskly until he reached the Tower. The wind had risen, but there was still enough light to help him on his way. The little building was in complete darkness. He opened the door and stepped into the sitting-room, lit the lamp, and, holding it over his head, went down the passage and into the kitchen. Then he gave a start. The lamp nearly slipped from his fingers. Kneeling on the stone floor, in very much the same attitude as he had found her earlier in the day, Hannah Cox was crouching patiently by the door which led into the boat-house, her face expressionless, her ear turned towards the crack. She was still listening.