BRACHEY came suddenly into view, around the corner of the wall from the little side street.
He was dressed almost stiffly—not in knickerbockers now, but in what would be called at home a business suit, with stiff white collar and a soft but correct hat; and he carried a stick—like an Englishman, Betty thought, careful to the last of appearances. As if there were no such thing as danger; only stability. She might have been back in the comfortable New Jersey town and he a casual caller. And then, after taking him in, in a quick conflict of moods that left her breathless, she glanced hurriedly about. But only the blank compound wall met her gaze, and tile roofs, with the chimneys of the higher mission house peeping above foliage. The gate was but a narrow opening, near the farther end of the tennis court. No one could see. For that matter, it was to be doubted that any one in the compound knew she was here. And beyond the little street stood another blank wall.... And he had come!
She could not know that she seemed very composed as she laid her portfolio on the camp stool and rose. Then her hand was in his. Her voice said:
“It was nice of you to come. But—”
“When I asked for a meeting—for one meeting....” Her eyes were down; he was set, as for a formal speech.... “It was, as you may imagine, because a matter has arisen that seems to me of the greatest importance.”
She wondered what made him talk like that. As if determined to appeal to her mind. She couldn't listen; not with her mind; she was all feeling. He was a stranger, this man. Yet she had thought tenderly of him. It was difficult.
“You didn't come alone?” she asked, unaware that her manner, too, was formal.
“Yes. Oh, yes! I know the way.”
“But it isn't safe. When I wrote... I heard what Mrs. Boatwright said. I was angry.”
“She was very rude.”