CHAPTER VII.
"Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!"
The portentous interview in the library was held within closed doors, and at its conclusion the two gentlemen left the house by one of the casement windows of the room that gave upon the terrace. Through the gathered dusk they passed side by side, their blurred shadows tracking them in the faint radiance of the young moon. Side by side they crossed the lawn, bearing down towards the belt of woodland beyond which lay Drummond Lodge—two apparitions, voiceless and black. At last the blackness of the woods embraced them and they vanished.
Not until the dense umbrage of the budding trees was reached was a word exchanged between the ill-assorted pair. It was there, upon the fragrant hem of the grove, that Morton paused, removed his hat and mopped his brow, though the evening was damp and chill.
"I see no occasion for me to go farther," he remarked, a note of nervous irritation in his tone.
"I did not intend to bring you so far," replied Drummond; "but I wished to think of your proposition; to think before I gave an answer to your—your unnatural demand."
His companion listened to the words, his pallid face agleam in the wan twilight.
"Well," he muttered, "you have arrived at some conclusion?"
"I admit that I am curious to know the limit of your powers," was the reply, bitter with irony.
"I boast no special powers. I will simply try to do that which I have proposed."