"Of course I am a fool," he reflected; "perhaps I am mad," and then he again tried to understand the experiences which had so bewildered him. But he could not. All was confusion.
He hurried along the drive which led to the lodge near which Beatrice Stanmore lived. He had a strange longing to see once more the home of the child who had come to him in the hour of his dire temptation.
When he had gone some distance he turned to have a last look at the house. Never had it seemed so fair; never as now did he realise what he was leaving. What a future he was giving up! What a life he was discarding! Yes; he had been a fool—an egregious fool! Oh, the folly of his actions!—the mad folly!
"Holloa, Mr. Faversham!"
He turned and saw Beatrice Stanmore.
"You are going away?"
"Yes; I'm going to London."
"And walking to the station? Why?"
"Because I've no conveyance."
The girl looked at him wonderingly. Questions seemed to hang upon her lips—questions which she dared not ask.