"I am not sure that you deserve my love," pouted Sybil as he escorted her to the door. "You place all kinds of obstacles in my way!"
She was rather angry, for her heart was fully taken up with the magnificence of her scheme. However, Leo managed to calm her, and gain her forgiveness. He was quite unaware of what he had done wrong. But Sybil said that he had behaved disgracefully, so he apologised. Then she said that she was a wicked girl, and after kissing him ran away. All this was very foolish, but very sweet. Leo often recalled that interview to her in after days, and they both agreed that they behaved like two most sensible people. But at present Leo was too sad to enjoy the stolen meeting as a true and loyal lover should have done.
That same night the sea-fog rolled up thick and white. Mr Pratt did not return home, at which non-arrival Adam was not surprised. Mr Pratt was too fond of his creature comforts to drive twenty miles through a damp and clinging mist. Leo had the whole house to himself, and Adam, who thought a good deal of him, did his best to make him comfortable. He consulted with the cook and gave Leo a capital little dinner, together with a bottle of superfine Burgundy. Then he supplied him with cigars of the best and coffee of the finest, and left him comfortably seated before the drawing-room fire. Under these circumstances Leo felt happier than he had expected, seeing at what a low ebb his fortunes were.
The position of the unfortunate young man was undeniably hard. Here he was, deserted by his aunt, Mrs Gabriel. She had taken him up, brought him up to expect a large fortune, and then, for no cause at all, had suddenly cast him out on the world to earn his own living as best he could. And in addition to this, although it was hardship enough, poor Leo's character was gone. He was accused of a sordid crime, and might have to answer for it to the law. He did not see what defence he could make. Certainly, if he acceded to Hale's terms, he could vindicate his position in some measure by accounting for the sum of money he had used to pay his debts. But in this case Sybil would be lost to him. And what would life be without Sybil? Altogether, Leo was in low spirits, in spite of the fire and the Burgundy, and the memory of that charming interview. But it was no use lamenting, as he very truly observed to himself, so he tried to shake off the feeling of depression and went to bed. He was young, the world was large, and he hoped in some way or another to sail out of these troubled waters into a peaceful haven. Hope was the silver lining to his cloud of black despair.
Meanwhile, Raston had written to his friend Marton a full account of the loss of the cup, of the accusation by Mrs Jeal of Leo, and of the suspicions entertained by the villagers concerning the probity of the young man. For some days he heard nothing. Then one evening Marton himself arrived unexpectedly at Colester. He went at once to the curate's lodgings and was received with great surprise.
"My dear Marton, this is an unexpected pleasure," said Raston, assisting his distinguished visitor to pull off his coat. "I thought you would have written to me about your visit to Penny."
"I didn't go there," replied Marton, with a laugh. "The fact is, Harold, I cannot quite understand this case. You have not explained matters clearly enough in your letter. I have set a detective to watch Penny and Penny's shop, and I have come down to hear all details from your own worshipful lips. But what a foggy sort of place you have here! I have been driving in your mail-coach through a kind of cotton-wool. The guard thought we would never reach Colester. I felt like a character of Dickens in that coach. You are a primitive people here. Do you know I rather like it!"
Marton was a tall, slim, black-haired man, neatly dressed in a tweed suit. He constantly smoked cigarettes, and maintained a perfectly calm demeanour. No one ever saw Marton excited. His face was clean-shaven, and his grey eyes were sharp and piercing. He looked what he was, a thorough gentleman, and a remarkably shrewd, clever man. His fame as a detective is so well known that it need hardly be mentioned.
"I must get you something to eat," said Raston.
"No. I dined at Portfront before I left. Give me a glass of port, and I can smoke a cigarette. This fire is comfortable after the fog."