She did know where to go and went there. Murdoch was standing opposite the house in which Rachel Ffrench slept. She went to him and put her hand on his arm.
"What are you doing here?" she said, in a low voice. He turned and gave her a cold, vacant look. He did not seem at all surprised at finding her dark, beautiful young face at his very shoulder.
"I don't know. Can you tell me?"
"We have been waiting for you," she said. "We cannot rest when you are away."
"Do you want me to go home and go to bed decently and sleep?" he said. "Do you suppose I would not, if I could? I always start from here and come back here. I say to myself, 'It will take me an hour to reach the place where I can see her window.' It is something to hold one's mind in check with. This rambling—and—and forgetting what one has meant to think about is a terrible thing."
"Come home with me," she said. "We will not talk. You can lie on the sofa and we will go away. I want your mother to sleep."
Something in her presence began to influence him to a saner mood.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. "It is midnight."
"I am not afraid. I could not bear to stay in the house. We sit there——"
An idea seemed to strike him suddenly. He stopped her and asked deliberately: