"He—he's gone?" she whispered.
"Yes," Locke answered softly. "Don't try to talk, Polly."
She shook her head. A smile came, bravely forced.
"I—I saw him from upstairs—on the lawn coming toward the house," she said. "After a little while when he did not come in, I went down to find him. I did not see him anywhere, and—and I walked along the verandah, and I heard your voices in here—heard something you were saying. I—I was close to the door then—and—somehow I—I couldn't move—and—I wanted to cry out—and I couldn't. And—and I heard—all. And then I felt myself swaying against the window, and somehow it gave way and—and—"
She turned her face away and buried it in her hands.
Something subconscious in Locke's mind seemed to be at work. He was staring at the French window. It had given way. It hadn't any socket for the bolt at top or bottom. Strange it should have been that window! He brushed his hand across his eyes.
"Polly," he said tenderly, and, kneeling, drew her to him until her head lay upon his shoulder.
And then her tears came.
And neither spoke.
But her hand had crept into his and held it tightly, like that of a tired and weary child who had lost its way—and found it again.