"I insist," said Winn, smilingly. "If you do not go, I shall have to give up my stroll."
"Well, if you're determined, that settles it," said the Earl, with a good-humoured laugh. "I have my recollections of the firmness of your decisions. Good-night."
Left alone, Winn lighted another cigar, then unfastened the French windows and stepped on to the terrace. He walked to the end, and stood at the top of the steps leading to the front entrance. He descended these, and started to stroll down the avenue of trees that stretched for half a mile to the park gates.
He did not know that from a window he was being watched by a pair of eyes—eyes that were shining with the eagerness that proclaims but one feeling in a woman. Olive Grahame, fully dressed—she had not the slightest inclination for sleep—was sitting at an open window, her gaze riveted on the tall figure that was fast disappearing from her view. Suddenly she gave a slight start, then strained eagerly forward. There was a brilliant moon, and across a small piece of turf she had seen a dark shadow move quickly. She looked intently. There was no mistake. She saw the shadow move again, then finally vanish into the blackness of the trees.
She got up quickly, her hand trembling with excitement. Someone was following Winn, hiding from him behind the trees! She stood for a moment in the middle of the room, thinking. One fact was clear before her: Alan Winn was in danger, and she was the only person who knew of it. Without a second's hesitation, she crossed her room, opened the door, and crept along the passage until she reached a staircase. She was well acquainted with the house, and knew a way by which she could gain the terrace. She reached the library, and found the window half open. Someone else had evidently used this means of exit. She guessed who.
In another minute, she had crossed the terrace, run down the steps, and was speeding quickly down the avenue. She had gone barely a dozen paces when her eye caught sight of a tiny patch of white ahead of her. It grew bigger, and she realised that it was coming towards her. A few yards more and she almost ran into the arms of the Count. He was in evening dress, and in one hand held a short, heavy-looking stick. With the other he was attempting to slip something into his pocket as he ran. As he met Olive, he drew back with a nervous start, and it slipped through his fingers to the ground. She pounced on it; it was a leather wallet.
Recovering from his surprise, he caught hold of her wrist. His face grew livid with rage.
"Give that to me, you little fool," he said, breathing heavily.
"What have you done to Mr. Winn?" she panted; "tell me, else I'll scream for help."