“H’sh! Whatever is that?” cried the voice in alarm.
“A heart breaking,” he replied, lighting his cigar.
“Don’t talk like that,” said the voice. “It—it distresses me.” There was a break in the voice.
“And, alas! between distress and consolation there are fifteen perpendicular feet of stone and mortar and the relics of twelve hundred bottles of Bass,” he replied.
“Perhaps,”—the voice hesitated—“perhaps we may see each other some day.”
“Say to-morrow at four o’clock,” he suggested, pertinently. “If you could manage to be passing up the drive at that hour.”
There was another pause.
“Perhaps——” the voice began.
At that moment he heard the sharp crack of a branch behind him, and turning instantly he spied the uncompromising countenance of Moggridge peering round a tree about twenty paces distant. Lack of presence of mind and quick decision were not amongst Mr Beveridge’s failings. He struck a theatrical attitude at once, and began in a loud voice, gazing up at the tops of the trees, “He comes! A stranger comes! Yes, my fair friend, we may meet again. Au revoir, but only for a while! Ah, that a breaking heart should be lit for a moment and then the lamp be put out!”
Meanwhile Moggridge was walking towards him.