“Try to remember that you——” The Professor stopped abruptly and stood listening. They looked at one another. Hadria was deadly white. A step was advancing along the winding path through the bushes behind them: a half overgrown path, that led from a small door in the wall that ran round the park. It was the nearest route from the station to the house, and a short cut could be taken this way through the garden, to Craddock Place.
“It’s all right,” the Professor said in a low voice; “we were saying nothing compromising.”
The step drew nearer.
“Some visitor to Craddock Place probably, who has come down by the 4.20 from town.”
“Professor Fortescue!”
Hadria had sprung up, and was standing, with flushed cheeks, beside her calmer companion.
Professor Fortescue’s voice broke the momentary silence. He gave a warm smile of pleasure and came forward with out-stretched hand.
“The hoped-for instant has come sooner than I thought,” he cried genially.
Hadria was shocked to see him looking very ill. He said that his doctor had bullied him, at last, into deciding to go south. His arrangements for departure had been rather hastily made, and he had telegraphed this morning, to Craddock Place, to announce his coming. His luggage was following in a hand-cart, and he was taking the short cut through the Priory gardens. He had come to say good-bye to them all. Miss Du Prel, he added, had already made up her mind to go abroad, and he hoped to come across her somewhere in Italy. She had given him all news. He looked anxiously at Hadria. The flush had left her face now, and the altered lines were but too obvious.
“You ought to have change too,” he said, “you are not looking well.”