Nothing could be more respectful than Fahey's manner. He did not regard her as human. He worshipped her afar off. He ate his heart in silence. He breathed no word, no sigh, gave wilfully no sign. But she saw his downcast or averted face, and she read the homage in furtive glances of his wondering eyes.
Then came the scene with the rose and her husband's absence abroad, followed by his return, and a brief history of the marvellous escape he had from that French bank, and his resolution that he would now settle down in life and speculate no more. She then had but a dim idea of what speculation meant, of what his business was.
Soon came a day of mystery and horror to her.
She was alone in the little sitting-room on the ground floor, purely her own. It faced west. Broad daylight flooded the garden before her, the rolling downs beyond.
Suddenly the light of the window by which she sat was obscured. The window was opened by Fahey. She motioned him to enter. By way of reply he made an impatient gesture.
"Is he in?" asked Fahey, breathlessly.
"No," she answered. "Can I do anything for you?"
She now saw he was in violent agitation, and physically distressed.
He continued:
"I have not a moment to spare. Say to him, 'All is well. All is safe for him.' I have arranged that."