Voices drifted to her from the inner room. It was a mere cupboard, kept in semi-darkness.
She listened at length, listened with a start.
"Is it safe here by the door?"
The beads rattled. She heard Jimmie Gore Helmsley's voice.
"Only a few people get away. It's early yet. Look here, Syl, meet me at Brighton on Sunday. Do! We'll have a lovely day. I'll have a cousin—she lives there—to do propriety. Make some excuse and get off. We never have a day together."
"But if people heard of it?" Sybil Chauntsey faltered.
"No one will. No one we know goes to Brighton on Sundays, and if they do we are just taking a stroll. Do, Sybil! I deserve something. I—I wasn't hard-hearted over those bridge debts now, was I?"
Poor Sybil, with her hand pressed to her throat. She owed this man two hundred pounds now. If he went to her people she would be sent home in disgrace.
"No," she whispered. "No."
"We'll wipe 'em out for ever if you'll be a good child and have a simple spree. I'll give you back your I.O.U., your letters."