“You will leave the house to return here between eleven and twelve, I suppose?” said Oswin.
“Well, I should say that about eleven will see me on my way.”
“And you will go through the pine-wood?”
“I will, my boy, and across The Flats until I pass the little river—it's there still, I suppose. And now suppose I buy you a drink?”
But Oswin Markham declined to be the object of such a purchase. He went back to his own room, and threw himself on his bed, where he remained for more than an hour. Then he rose and wiped his forehead.
He pulled down some books that he had bought, and tried to read bits of one or two. He sat diligently down as if he meant to go through a day's reading, but he did not appear to be in the mood for applying himself to anything. He threw the books aside and turned over some newspapers; but these did not seem to engross him any more than the books had done. He lay back in his chair, and after a while his restlessness subsided: he had fallen asleep.
It was the afternoon before he awoke with a sudden start. He heard the sound of voices in the street below his window. He went forward, and, looking out, was just in time to see Harry Despard mounting his horse at the hotel door.
“I will be back about midnight,” he said to the porter of the hotel, and then he trotted off.
Markham heard the sound of the horse's hoofs die away on the street, and he repeated the man's words: “About midnight.”