THE WATCHER
A man seated in the shadows watched them part, for the moon had come out again, watched them part as he had watched them come, as he had watched them standing there together on the edge of the pool. To him, the watcher, it had seemed that the girl was in the man's arms, her face uplifted to his—he had seen the moonlight on her face and had seen the dull glimmer of her hair.
And the man—yes, he thought that he made no mistake—about the man! So Mr. Coombe was right, clever, farseeing, sensible Mr. Coombe—God's blessings on Mr. Coombe for his few idle words that meant so much to this man watching here in the shadows.
He did not move. He scarcely breathed, as the girl passed him, alone on her way to the house. He heard her sobbing softly to herself as she went, saw the little head bent as in shame.
And to the watcher it seemed that she went in shame and he was glad—Heaven knew how glad he was!
Yet he must make no mistake, he must not trust to intuition, to mere suspicion. He must know beyond the shadow of a doubt that this man was Allan Homewood—'Her' husband.
Scarsdale rose, the man was still standing by the edge of the pool, the girl had gone some while. Scarsdale walking softly on the turf, skirted the hedge and came out on the broad flagged pathway. He walked leisurely towards the pool and seemed to see the other man for the first time.
"Hello!" he said. "Who is here?"
"I——" Allan turned to him.
"You—oh Homewood, is that you, my host?"