But Beryl was growing bolder in the face of emergency. She coolly set his assurance aside.
"I do not quite agree with you," she said. "I am a better walker than you seem to imagine, and the walk into Farabad certainly would not kill me. We might be able to hire some conveyance there—a tonga or even a bullock-cart"—she laughed a little—"would be better than nothing."
But Fletcher persistently shook his head.
"I am sorry—horribly sorry, but it would be downright madness to attempt it."
"Nevertheless," said Beryl very quietly, "I mean to do so."
She saw his brows meet for a single instant, and she was conscious of a sick feeling at her heart that made her physically cold. Doubt was emerging into deadly conviction.
Suddenly he leaned towards her, and spoke very earnestly.
"Mrs. Denvers, please believe that I regret this mischance every whit as much as you do. But, after all, it is only a mischance, and we may be thankful it was no worse. Shall we not treat it as such, and make the best of it?"
He was looking her straight in the face as he said it, but, steady as was his gaze, she was not reassured. Quick as lightning came the thought—it was almost like an inner voice warning her—that he must not suspect the fact. Whatever happened she must veil her uneasiness, which she feared had been already far too obvious.
Quietly she rose and expressed her willingness to go with him into the shade of the trees.