Hearing which, Miss Mary Neville, the ingénue, did what she was accustomed to do in plays on such occasions—fainted.
Far away in the distance the Town Hall clock struck twelve. There was a general rustle, as everyone verified the time by their own watches in the little patches of moonlight.
“If May finds him here there’ll be trouble.”
“P’r’aps he won’t come,” volunteered Manning, and was advised to avoid folly and stupid speculation.
Eliphalet laid a white kerchief on the ground—stepped out fifteen paces, and dropped another. Then he took out the pistols and examined them. This he did at the precise moment Miss Neville emerged from her faint, and caused an immediate relapse. Satisfied that all was in order with the weapons, he laid them on the top of the case. His actions were very concise, and he appeared quite composed.
“Fact is, he guesses we’re here, and he’s putting up a big bluff,” whispered Harrington May’s supporter into a convenient ear.
Then there was silence, faintly disturbed by the rustle of the breeze and the clucking of water dripping from the mosses of the old mill-wheel.
Eliphalet removed his coat and looked at his watch. Ten minutes past twelve. The waiting was trying his nerves. There should be strict punctuality in an affair of honour. He began pacing up and down, slowly at first, but later with a savage intensity of movement; when the quarter past chimed, he tossed his head angrily.
“Can’t make out what’s become of May. He was almost dressed when we left the theatre.”
“Perhaps——” began Manning, then stopped as the noise of approaching wheels and hoofs cut crisply into the silence.