"Good-bye, dear child!" But Sir Josiah was not to be deprived of his kiss.
"It's all right, Bletsoe!" he said at last with a sigh, "I think Mr. Coombe has got well away."
They had stayed late, would have stayed later, but for his lordship's anxiety to be back in town. As it was, the sun was near its setting, the sweet mellow glow of the evening was on the earth, and the distances were purple against the red and yellow sky.
They stood in the roadway, waving, Allan and Kathleen and Scarsdale. She could have wished that he had gone with them and mentally took herself to task for her lack of hospitality.
And now the white dust whirled up by the stout tyres of Sir Josiah's car, blotted it out. It was gone and Kathleen slipped her hand through Allan's arm.
Scarsdale saw it. It was done so spontaneously, it seemed so natural that it angered him, his face stiffened. She had married the fellow for money, for nothing else, why did she find it necessary to make such pretence with him? It was mere acting, he knew that, yet he felt she over-acted the part and she fell a little in his estimation, though his love for her and desire of her was no less than before.
A man with bent head trudged past them down the road, he lifted his hand to his hat and touched it as he went, yet never gave them a glance. His hand, having reached his hat, remained with it for some moments, his fingers fumbling at the brim, then he was gone.
"Who was that?" Kathleen asked.
Allan hesitated for a moment.
"A man named Lestwick—he is——"