Was it possible that she might learn at the hotel early in the morning, that Lord Fotheringay had been murdered? When the news of the murder had spread round the country—and it seemed to have done so from the course that the woodcutters had adopted on coming upon him asleep—it would certainly be known at the hotel. If so, what would Beatrice do?
Surely she would take the earliest train back to London.
But if she did not hear anything of the matter, would she then remain at the hotel awaiting his return?
What would she think of him? What would she think of his desertion of her at that supreme moment?
Can a woman ever forgive such an act of desertion? Could Beatrice ever forgive his turning away from her love?
Was he beginning to regret that he had fled away from the loveliest vision that had ever come before his eyes?
Did Saint Anthony ever wish that he had had another chance?
If for a single moment Harold Wynne had an unworthy thought, assuredly it did not last longer than a single moment.
“Whatever may happen now—whether she forgives me or forsakes me—thank God—thank God!”
This was what his heart was crying out all the time that he walked along the road with bowed head. He felt that he had been strong enough to save her—to save himself.