“Hugh will be down directly,” Helen told Latham as she came in, a moment after Mrs. Hilary had gone.
“Good. I will take him away in my car, and find some place where he can stay safely until we can get at the truth of this.”
“Ah, that is good of you,” Helen thanked him.
“Remember,” Latham reminded her gravely, “sooner or later Hugh must give himself up.”
“He knows that,” Helen said bravely.
“I drive my own car now,” the doctor said briskly, “so we can start at once. Be sure he’s ready.”
“Oh, yes,” she said.
“Then I’ll get the car and bring it round,” he said over his shoulder as he went.
She scarcely heard his last words, or realized that he had gone. She stood very still, one hand on the table—one on her breast. There was something trance-like in the tense, slender figure. Her wide eyes glazed. Her breath came in slow, heavy beats. Presently she gave a great sigh, lifted her hand from her breast to her head, then moved slowly towards the bookcase, her hand stretched out in front of her now, as if leading and pointing. She moved mechanically, as sleep walkers move, and almost as if impelled from behind. Her face was still and mask-like.
She had almost reached the bookshelves, almost touched with her outheld hand “David Copperfield,” when Stephen came into the room. Instantly something odd and uncanny in her manner arrested him. For one moment he stood riveted, spell-bound, then he shook off furiously the influence that held him, and exclaimed abruptly, peremptorily, “Helen! Helen!”