With a low cry, Locke sprang past the other.
"Polly!" he cried.
She was clutching at the edge of the door, her form drooping lower and lower as though her support were evading her and she could not keep pace with its escape, her face a deathly white, her eyes half closed.
Locke caught her as she fell, gathered her in his arms and carried her to a couch. She had fainted. As he looked hurriedly around for some means of reviving her, Captain Francis Newcombe spoke at his elbow.
"Permit me," said Captain Francis Newcombe. He was proffering the water in a flower vase from which he had thrown out the flowers.
Mechanically Locke took it, and began to sprinkle the girl's face.
"Too bad!" said Captain Francis Newcombe pleasantly. "Er—hardly necessary, I fancy, for me to explain my sudden departure for England to her—what? I'll say au revoir, Locke—merely au revoir. We may meet again. Who knows—in another four years! And I'll leave you to make my adieus to Miss Marlin."
Locke made no reply.
The door closed. Captain Francis Newcombe was gone.
Polly stirred now on the couch. Her eyes opened, rested for an instant on Locke's, then circled the room in a strange, quick, fascinated way, as though fearful of what she might see yet still impelled to look.