“Perhaps to-morrow night. I don’t know. I must think it over first in all its bearings. To-morrow morning I will leave a letter in the office, telling you—”
“Well, if you insist on the delay. But it is dangerous, Winifred—it is horribly dangerous!”
“I can’t help that. How could a girl run away in that fashion?”
“Well, then, to-morrow night at eleven, precisely. I shall be at the end of this lane in my car, if your letter in the morning says ‘Yes.’ Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“Let me warn you against bringing anything with you—any clothes or a grip. Just steal out of the inn as you are. And I shall be just there at the corner—at eleven.”
“Yes.”
“I may not have the chance of speaking to you again before—”
But Carshaw’s pleading stopped short; from the near end of the lane a tall form entered it—Rachel Craik. She had followed Winifred from the hotel, suspecting that all was not well—had followed her, lost her, and now had refound her. She walked sedately, with an inscrutable face, toward the spot where the two were talking. The moment Carshaw saw this woman of ill omen he understood that all was lost, unless he acted with bewildering promptness, and quickly he whispered in Winifred’s ear: