“Madam, your wishes in this matter shall be respected. To-morrow then—we decide!”
“Thank you,” said Frances quietly.
She turned to go, but suddenly stopped short. He was aware of a change in her—a tremor of agitation.
“Ah!” she said, under her breath.
She was looking out of the shadow into the moonlight, and swiftly his eyes followed hers.
A figure in black was walking slowly and quite noiselessly over the grass by the side of the path.
“Who on earth—” began Montague.
She silenced him with a rapid gesture. “Hush! It is the Bishop!”
He reflected later that from her point of view it might have been wiser to have ignored the warning and have gone forth openly to meet the advancing intruder. But—perhaps it was the romance of the hour, perhaps merely her impulse communicating itself to him—or even, it might have been some deeper motive, barely acknowledged as yet that actuated him—whatever the influence at work, he obeyed her, drawing back in silence against the trunk of the yew tree.
And so, like two conspirators trapped in that haunted garden, they drew close together in the depth of the shadow and dumbly watched the black-gowned figure advance over the moonlit grass.