He had retained her hand for the last few moments, and now she felt herself being softly drawn towards him.
“My hand!” she exclaimed almost hysterically. “Release it! I order you to leave me!”
She tore it away and fell back several paces; then, as he still remained motionless, she went to the door and opened it. Lacour turned away; it was to hide the smile which rose when he heard the lock. In another moment he was once more in the garden.
There was moonlight by this time; the lawn was unshadowed, and he had to pass before the house in order to get into the park, and thence by a track he had in mind which would bring him into the high road. Close at hand, however, was the impenetrable gloom of the shrubbery, and, just as he was moving away from the end of the house to make a bold start across the open, there issued from the trees the form of a lady, who stepped quickly up to him.
“Mr. Lacour,” she said, recognising him without difficulty, “will you have the goodness to explain this to me?”
He had never yet heard Mrs. Clarendon’s voice speaking thus; it impressed him.
“What is the meaning of your presence in my house, and your very unusual way of leaving it?”
Vincent owed it to himself to make the most of this present experience. He was not likely again to see such an embodiment of splendid indignation, nor hear a voice so self-governed in rich anger. It was a pity that he had for the moment lost his calmer faculties; it cost him no little effort to speak the first few words of reply.
“I can only ask you to forgive me, Mrs. Clarendon——”
He was interrupted.