His pace did not slacken till a gleam as of fallen sky cupped in night-fringe warned him that the club-house must be near. A turn of a hill brought it into view, the windows not yet aglow. Nearer at hand was the boat-house, seemingly deserted. But as Willock, now grown wary, crept forward among the post-oaks and blackjacks, well screened from observation by chinkapin masses of gray interlocked network, he discovered two figures near the platform edging the lake. Neither was the one he sought; but from their being there—they were Edgerton Compton and Annabel,—he knew Gledware could not be far away.
"No," Annabel was saying decisively, and yet with an accent of regret, "No, Edgerton, I can't."
"But our last boat-ride," he urged. "Don't refuse me the last ride—a ride to think about all my life. I'm going away tomorrow at noon, as I promised. But early in the morning—"
"I have promised HIM," she said with lingering sadness in her voice. "So I must go with him. He has already engaged the boatman. He'll be here at seven, waiting for me. So you see—"
"Annabel, I shall be here at seven, also!" he exclaimed impetuously.
"But why? I must go with him, Edgerton. You see that."
"Then I shall row alone."
"Why would you add to my unhappiness?" she pleaded.
"I shall be here at seven," he returned grimly; "while you and he take your morning boat-ride, I shall row alone."
She turned from him with a sigh, and he followed her dejectedly up the path toward the club-house.