Uneasy and restless, still puzzling his head about the mystery surrounding the château, and by no means satisfied with the way in which Olwen had taken her leave of him that morning, Bayre was in two minds as to whether he should remain so much as an hour longer on the island of Creux, or whether he should return at once to Guernsey, shaking off the dust from his feet and vowing never to land on the smaller island again.
But the longing for one more interview with Olwen was too strong for him. On the following day he must return to London; he would make one last attempt to see her before he had to go away, and to take what would perhaps prove a last farewell of the only woman who had ever exercised an overwhelming fascination over him.
So that afternoon, after wandering about the island, and noting that the Vazons spied upon his movements with great assiduity, he turned his steps once more in the direction of the château, and was lucky enough to descry the object of his search in the grounds on the further side of the mansion.
Bayre made no scruple of trespassing; there was a wall on this side of no great height, and he scaled it without difficulty, and landed in a bed of flowers which, now that the snow had disappeared, spread a charming carpet of rich colour over the dark earth.
The young girl reddened as he leapt over the flower-beds on his way to her. She had something in her hand which attracted his attention at once.
“The latest novel?” asked he, smiling.
She laughed as she turned over the leaves of a portentous pile of foolscap.
“How would you like me to keep you to your promise, now that you see how much there is of it?” said she, archly.
For answer he took the MS. by force from her hands.
“I’ll stand to my guns nobly,” said he. “And if I can I’ll get it published for you. Don’t expect too much; I’ve never succeeded in selling one of my own. But perhaps something will give me more courage now that I’m trying for you.”