The respite was over. Bunning came in.
Change had seized Bunning. Here now was the result of his having pulled himself together. Olva could see that the man bad made up his mind to something, and that, further, he was resolved to keep his purpose secret. It was probably the first occasion in Bunning's life of such resolution. There was a faint colour in the fat cheeks, the eyes bad a little light and the man scarcely spoke at all lest this purpose should trickle from his careless lips. Also as he looked at Olva his customary devotion was heightened by an air of frightened pride.
Olva, watching him, was apprehensive—the devotion of a fool is the most dangerous thing in creation.
"Well, have you seen Craven again?"
"Yes. We had a talk."
"What did he say?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Rot. He didn't stop and talk to you about the weather. Come on, Bunning, what have you been up to?"
"I haven't been up to anything."
The man's lips were closed. For another half an hour Bunning sat in a chair before the fire—silent. Every now and again he flung a glance at Olva. Sometimes he jerked his head towards the window as though he heard a step.