During the week that followed, Elizabeth had very little time to spare for her own concerns, and Agneta clung to her and clung to hope, and day by day the hope grew fainter. It was the half-hours when they waited for the telephone bell to ring that brought the grey threads into Agneta’s hair. Twice daily Louis rang up, and each time, after the same agonising suspense, came the same message, “No news yet.” Towards the end of the week, there was a wire to say that a rumour had reached the coast that Mr. Strange was alive and on his way down the river.
It was then that Agneta broke down. Whilst all had despaired, she had held desperately to hope, but when Louis followed his message home, he found Agneta with her head in Elizabeth’s lap, weeping slow, hopeless tears.
Then, forty-eight hours later, Douglas Strange himself cabled in code to say that he had abandoned part of his journey owing to a native rising, and was returning at once to England.
“And now, Lizabeth,” said Agneta, “now your visit begins, please. This hasn’t been a visit, it has been purgatory. I’m sure we’ve both expiated all the sins we’ve ever committed or are likely to commit. Louis, take the receiver off that brute of a telephone. I shall never, never hear a telephone bell again without wanting to scream. Lizabeth, let’s go to a music hall.”
Next day Agneta said suddenly:
“Lizabeth, what is it?”
“What is what?”
Agneta’s little dark face became serious.
“Lizabeth, I’ve been a beast. I’ve only been thinking about myself. Now it’s your turn. What’s the matter?”
Elizabeth was silent.