“Am I? I don’t often have such a headache as this. The pain is here, over my left temple. Bathe it for me, will you, George?”
A handkerchief and some eau-de-Cologne were lying on the table beside her. George gallantly undertook the office: but he could not get over his wonder. “I’ll tell you what, Charlotte. If it was not yourself, it must have been your——”
“It must have been my old blind black dog,” interrupted Charlotte. “He has a habit of creeping about the trees at night. There! I am sure that’s near enough. I don’t believe it was anything or any one.”
“Your double, I was going to say,” persisted George. “I never saw your face if I did not think I saw it then. It proves how mistaken we may be. Where’s Verrall? A pretty trick he played me this evening.”
“What trick?” repeated Charlotte. “Verrall’s gone to London.”
“Gone to London!” shouted George, his tone one of painful dismay. “It cannot be.”
“It is,” said Charlotte. “When I came in from our ride I found Verrall going off by train. He had received a telegraphic message, which took him away.”
“Why did he not call upon me? He knew—he knew—the necessity there was for me to see him. He ought to have come to me.”
“I suppose he was in a hurry to catch the train,” said Charlotte.
“Why did he not send?”