Well, it was a sort of shock. The table had a desk and a heap of papers on it, and on it all lay a man’s head. The face was hidden in his hands, but he lifted it as I went in.
It was Clement-Pell. But I declare that at the first moment I did not know him. If ever you saw a face more haggard than other faces, it was his. He sat bolt upright in his chair then, and stared at me as one in awful fear.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I did not know any one was here.”
“Oh, it is you,” he said, and broke out into a smile—which somehow made the face look even more worn and weary than before. “I thought you had all left.”
“So we have, sir. But Miss Whitney forgot her bag, and I have run back for it. She left it in the small room in the hall.”
“Oh ay, all right,” he said. “You can go and get it, and run out this way again if you like. I dare say the hall-door is closed.”
“Good night, sir,” I said, coming back with the bag. “We have had a most delightful day, Mr. Clement-Pell, and I’m sure we ought to thank you for it.”
“I am glad it has been pleasant. Good night.”
The trees were pretty thick on this side the house. In passing a grove a few paces from the window, I saw something that was neither trunks nor leaves; but Mr. Johnson’s face with its black hair and white whiskers. He was hiding in the trees, his face peeping out to look at the room and at Clement-Pell.
It made me feel queer. It made me think of treachery. Though what treachery, or where, I hardly knew. Not a trace was to be seen of the face now: he drew it in; no doubt to let me pass. Ought I to warn Mr. Pell that he was being watched? I had distinctly heard the man say he was going away directly: why had he stayed? Yes, it would be right and kind. Walking a bit further, I quietly turned back.