Macloud was quite willing to run the risk with Croyden. He was confident that the call of the old life, the memory of the girl that was, and that 248 was still, would be enough to hold Geoffrey from more than firm friendship. He was not quite sure of himself, however—that he wanted to marry. And he was entirely sure she had not decided whether she wanted him—that was what gave him his lease of life; if she decided for him, he knew that he would decide for her—and quickly.
Then, one day, came a letter—forwarded by the Club, where he had left his address with instructions that it be divulged to no one. It was dated Northumberland, and read:
“My dear Colin—
“It is useless, between us, to dissemble, and I’m not going to try it. I want to know whether Geoffrey Croyden is coming back to Northumberland? You are with him, and should know. You can tell his inclination. You can ask him, if necessary. If he is not coming and there is no one else—won’t you tell me where you are? (I don’t ask you to reveal his address, you see.) I shall come down—if only for an hour, between trains—and give him his chance. It is radically improper, according to accepted notions—but notions don’t bother me, when they stand (as I am sure they do, in this case), in the way of happiness.
“Sincerely,
“Elaine Cavendish.”
At dinner, Macloud casually remarked: 249
“I ought to go out to Northumberland, this week, for a short time, won’t you go along?”
Croyden shook his head.
“I’m not going back to Northumberland,” he said.