He had meant to send off a second telegram, which Nigel would receive just before he went on the platform at the Bechstein. The last shattering hour had made him forget his plan, and he realised that if his brother was to have his message of good-cheer it must be sent at once. But how? There was still time, but he could not leave the house, even on such an errand—and yet his brother must be "bucked up" at all costs. To-morrow he would send another wire, asking him to come down for the week-end, but he thought it as well not to risk alarming him to-night. Len pondered a minute, then suddenly it occurred to him that he could give his telegram to the postman, who was due to pass Sparrow Hall on his way back from his round. By a lucky chance there was a telegraph-form in the house; Len filled it in, and then ran out with it to the lane.
He looked up at Janey's window—all was quiet, only the white curtains fluttered out on the wind; anyhow he would hear if she woke and called him. The lane was very dark—the sky was still faintly light above it, but night had fallen between the hedges. He heard footsteps, and saw a figure coming down Wilderwick hill.
"Hullo, Winkworth!" he cried, "I want you to do something for me."
He stepped out into the middle of the lane, and at the same time the figure began to climb the stile into Wilderwick meadows.
"Hi!" shouted Len—he suddenly realised that on fine dry nights the postman would take the field-path to Dormans.
"Hi!" he shouted, running after him. "Winkworth!—I've a——".
The words died on his tongue. He had reached the stile, and saw standing on the further side of it, on the high ground which the darkness had not reached—with the last of the western light upon his face—Quentin Lowe.
For a moment both men stared at each other, then Lowe moved away. Len stood stock still, a queer grimace on his features.