Jimmy raised his face. His lips were grey and pinched.
"It's no use," he said hopelessly. "No use. . . . Somehow I know it. . . . Oh, my God! If I could only have it over again—just a day. . . ." The anguish in his voice would have wrung a harder heart than Sangster's. For a moment there was unbroken silence in the room. Then Jimmy struggled to his feet.
"I must go after her. She won't come back, I know. But at least I can try. . . . It may not be too late—— Kettering—damn him! . . ." He broke off. He stood for a moment swaying to and fro.
Sangster caught his arm.
"You're not fit to go. Let me. . . . I'll do all I can. . . I give you my word of honour that I'll move heaven and earth to find her. And we may be mistaken. We may. . . ." He broke off. Someone had knocked softly on the door. For a moment neither of them answered, then the handle was softly turned, and Christine stood there on the threshold. . . .
Sangster caught his breath hard in his throat. He looked at her, and he had to hold himself back with an iron hand to keep from rushing to her, from falling at her feet in abasement for the very real doubt and dread that he had cherished against her.
She looked so young—such a child, and her brown eyes were so sweet and shy as she looked at Jimmy—never at him. He realised it with a little stabbing pain that it was not once at him that she looked, but past him, to where Jimmy stood like a man turned to stone.
Then: "Christine," said Jimmy Challoner with a great cry.
He put out his hand and touched her, almost as if he doubted that she was real. His breath was coming fast; he was ashen pale.
"Christine," he said again in a whisper.