“We shall find him there,” she repeated, in a low voice. And presently she added, with a manifest effort, “I will tell you—something. You may as well know.”
“You may trust me,” said Philip, strangely moved. He could not conceive what secret there could be, connecting her with Grant, and indicating danger to the latter; and the thought that she should be involved in so sinister a mystery filled him with a tender poignancy of solicitude.
“You may not think it much—it is something about myself,” she said, partly turning away her head as she spoke. “I’ve never said anything about it to any one; mother would not understand, and father—he would have understood, perhaps, but it would have troubled him. Indeed, I don’t understand it myself—I only know it happens.”
“It’s something that keeps happening, then?” demanded Philip, more than ever perplexed.
As Marion was about to reply, the left side of the wagon lurched downwards, the horse having, in the darkness, taken them over the side of the road. Philip pulled his right rein violently, and it gave way, Mr. Jebson’s harness being old and out of repair. Philip jumped down to investigate the damage by the aid of the lantern.
“If I can find a bit of string I can mend it,” he reported to Marion.
“I’ll give you my shoe-strings,” she said, stooping to unfasten them. “They are of leather and will hold. But be quick, Philip, or we shall be too late!”
There was such urgency in her tone, that had Philip needed any stimulus, it would have been amply provided. He repaired the break with as much despatch as was consistent with security and then resumed his seat beside Marion.
“I fear we shall be too late,” she repeated; “we should have started earlier. It’s my fault; I waited too long.”
“Are you so certain”—began Philip; but she interrupted him.