The sinister significance of her attitude flashed over him, all doubt vanished, all the comedy of their encounter was gone in an instant. Over him swept a startled sequence of emotions—bitter contempt for Dysart, scorn of the wretchedly equivocal situation and of the society that bred it, a miserable desire to spare her, vexation at himself for what he had unwittingly stumbled upon. The last thought persisted, dominated; succeeded by a disgusted determination that she must be spared the shame and terror of what she had inadvertently revealed; that she must never know she had not been speaking to Dysart himself.
"If I tell you that all is well—and if I tell you no more than that," he whispered, "will you trust me?"
"Have I not done so, Jack?"
The tragedy in her lifted eyes turned him cold with fury.
"Then wait here until I return," he said. "Promise."
"I promise," she sighed, "but I don't understand. I'm a—a little frightened, dear. But I—believe you."
He swung on his heel and made toward the lights once more, and a moment later the man he sought passed within a few feet of him, and Duane knew him by his costume, which was a blue replica of his own gray silks.
"Dysart!" he said sharply.
The masked figure swung gracefully around and stood still, searching the shadowy woodland inquiringly.
"I want a word with you. Here—not in the light, if you please. You recognise my voice, don't you?"