“Miss Merriman!”
She was very pale, and the expression of her face was one of guilt and confusion. But if she was shy, Southerley was more so. He offered her that armchair the springs of which were in the least imperfect condition, and sat down himself on the most rickety of them all, tongue-tied, restless and bashful.
Miss Merriman was all in black, and the black spotted veil she wore increased the effect of her pallor.
“They told me Mr Bayre was here,” she said.
Southerley started as if he had never heard the name.
“Bayre! Oh, yes, yes. So he is, I believe. Shall I—shall I go and tell him?”
“I—I want to know,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “whether he’ll take me with him—to Creux. You know all about it, of course?”
From shyness poor Southerley rushed into rash confidence.
“Yes, I know. Why didn’t you tell us before? What reason had you for not letting us into your secret at first?”
He had shifted his seat uneasily, and was now sitting on the arm of his rickety chair, thumping the back of it nervously as he spoke.