She held her hand up toward the sky. A mist was falling. An opal vapor was beyond this mist. The world seemed wrapped in a great yellow blanket.
“Beastly morning,� he said as he dropped the bags to his feet. “Suppose they could follow us to here?�
“I don’t know. I wish the sun would come out. I’m soaked.�
“Come on,� he said, lifting the bags and starting over the plank bridge. “We’ll pull one of these up and then we’ll be safe for a time. Where are we?�
She tiptoed over the bridge and watched him go back and remove the center plank. This he pulled ashore. They walked up through dew-laden grass and entered an open summer-house whose quaint carvings and low benches, made from natural wood knots, showed the hand of a Holland builder.
He sat down, drew his coat around his knees and thrust out his shoes. “I’ll wager, Saidee, we’ve beat the coppers,� he said, fishing for a cigarette and lighting it with a sputtering match. “Now you come clean with what you know and we’ll go back to London together. I’ll see Sir Richard, get an unconditional pardon, and we’ll go to the States. The war is nine months over.�
“But another begins,â€� she said as she stood before him. “Don’t you know the most terrible struggles are the silent ones—the commercial ones that go on in the dark?â€�
“Like the underworld against the police.�
“Please don’t mention the underworld. I’ve been out of it for five years—so have you. We’ve squared it. You know my people. I know yours. It’s time we’re living up to our blue china. Thievery is worse than cheating at cards. You should use your talents within the law. Let’s play the game according to the rules.â€�
He watched her and puffed at his cigarette. She walked back and forth over the planks of the summer-house. The soles of her high-heeled gun-metal shoes were wet. Her skirt hung dejectedly. The ruching about her neck had lost its starch. The crowning touch of the drooping feathers was pathetic.