"It's time we were moving, then," he said. "Your true vagabond wants no roots—even in a roulotte—nor regrets anything."
"I can't forgive Olga for this. I consider her most intrusive, impertinent—"
Markham had laid warning fingers upon her arm. A moment ago on the hill below them a man's figure had been in silhouette against the lights. At the sound of their voices it had suddenly disappeared. They stood in silence for a moment, watching, but the figure did not reappear.
"That was curious. I was mistaken, perhaps," said Markham. "Come, we must go on."
They turned their backs resolutely to the light and in a moment had passed over the brow of the hill and were alone under the wan light of the darkening heavens. They had not traveled by night before and the obscurity closed in upon them shrouded in mystery. But as they emerged from beneath the trees their eyes became accustomed to the darkness and they followed the road cheerfully enough, determined to put as many kilometers as possible between themselves and the threatening white plume of Olga Tcherny which seemed in the last few hours to have achieved an appalling significance. At first Markham had been disposed to laugh at Hermia's fears. What reason in the world could Olga have had to suspect Hermia's share in his innocent pilgrimage? Of his own tastes she had of course been ready to believe anything, and he had had ample proof that she thoroughly disapproved of his present mode of living. Nor was that a matter which could affect a great deal their personal relations, which were already strained to the point of tolerance. But as to his companion—that was another affair. He had never understood the intuitions of women and thought them more often shrewd guesswork in which they were as likely to be wrong as right. But the more he considered what Hermia had said to him, the more definite became the impression that Olga Tcherny had fallen upon some clew to Hermia's whereabouts—that she had expected to find her—as Hermia had said—in Cleofonte's house-wagon. He knew something of Olga and had a wholesome respect for her intelligence. If it was to her interest to prove Hermia his companion on this mad pilgrimage, it was clearly to Hermia's interest to prove her own non-existence. As Hermia had suggested, her intrusiveness was impertinent, and Markham mentally added the adjectives "ruthless" and "indecent." He had been almost ready to add "vengeful," but could not really admit, even to himself, that she had anything to be vengeful about.
Whatever Hermia's further thoughts upon the subject, for the present she kept them to herself. They walked along as rapidly as Clarissa's gait would allow, for the tiny beast, never precipitate at the best of times, found the darkness little to her liking and pattered along with evident reluctance, mindful of the truss of hay only half eaten which she had left under Cleofonte's hospitable lights.
At a turn in the road Markham determined to verify his suspicions of a while ago, and accordingly drew Clarissa among some bushes, and, stick in hand, awaited the approach of the shadow which he was sure still hung upon their trail. Distant objects were dimly discernible, and Markham had almost decided that he had been mistaken when the crackling of a twig at no great distance advised him that in the shadow of the hedge someone was approaching. He remained quiet until a man slowly emerged from the shadows, when he stepped quickly out of his hiding place and confronted him.
Markham's six feet were menacing, and his pursuer stopped in his tracks, eyeing Markham's stick, undecided as to whether it were the best policy to face the thing out or take to his heels. As Markham's legs were longer than his, he chose the former and made a brave enough show of indifference, though his tongue wagged uncertainly.
"B-bon soir, Monsieur," he stammered. "Il fait beau—"
But Markham was in no mood to pass compliments upon the weather.