“I will try it to-morrow,” said Aymer.
“No; that is too soon. Say the night after. We must go as early in the evening as is compatible with being unseen, so as to have the whole night to escape in. Now sleep. I shall not say another word.”
He withdrew, and Aymer vainly tried to slumber. He could not sleep till morning, and he did not wake till far into the day. His breakfast was waiting for him. As he sat down to it with a better appetite, Fulk spoke to him from the picture.
“You look better,” he said; “your long sleep has refreshed you. Shall we try it to-night? I own I am afraid lest some trifle should delay us.”
“To-night, certainly,” said Aymer. “I feel quite well now. It was simply a heaviness—a drowsiness—a narcotic, perhaps. Let it be to-night. I must go to Violet.”
“Ah, Violet!” sighed Fulk. “That was my poor wife’s name too. I shall love your Violet. I will help you. I know more of the world than you do.”
The day passed slowly. They conversed in low tones nearly all the time. Aymer, led on by Fulk’s gentle ways, frankly told him all his struggles, his disappointments, his hopes. Fulk was deeply interested. At last he said—
“At ten we will do it, or perish. I have a mind,” he said, “to let you go alone; you are stronger than I am. Very likely my nervousness or weakness will spoil the whole enterprise; but you could do it certainly.”
“I will not hear of such a thing,” said Aymer; “I will not attempt it without you. Do you think I am a cur?”
The dusk fell gradually—so slowly that it tried Aymer’s patience terribly. Davidson lit the gas, and left him the evening paper.