As soon as they had left, Liane inquired of her father what she should do; but he told her briefly that it had been merely an excuse to prevent her going to the station, as he knew she disliked Zertho’s society.
“Yes, father,” she answered with a slight sigh, “I think him simply hateful. I’m convinced that he’s neither your friend, nor mine.”
Then glancing at the clock, she passed out of the house humming to herself as she walked slowly down the garden path, into the white dusty high road.
For a long time Brooker stood twirling his moustache, gazing aimlessly out into the crimson blaze of the dying day.
“I can’t think why Zertho should have taken this trouble to look me up again,” he murmured to himself. “I had hoped that he had cut me entirely, and believed that terrible incident was forgotten. The excuse about Liane is all very well. But I know him. He means mischief—he means mischief.”
And his face grew ashen pale as his eyes were lost in deep and serious contemplation.
A sudden thought had flashed across his mind. It held him petrified, for he half-feared that he had guessed the bitter, ghastly truth.