“Well, what’s the fear?” I heard him ask her quickly. “I had your wire this morning, and got to Bath by the last train. Couldn’t you have written?”
“No; it was highly dangerous,” was her low response; and then she uttered some quick explanation which I could not catch.
Was it possible that she had learnt of Tramu’s visit, for I distinctly heard him cry—
“You fool! Why did you bring me here? Why weren’t you more wary?”
But in her reply she turned her back upon me, so that I could not distinguish her words.
They stood close together in the darkness, conversing in low tones, as though in earnest consultation, while I, holding my breath, strove in vain to catch their words.
The only other sound was the mournful hooting of an owl in the trees above; for the dead stillness of the night was now upon everything.
“Exactly,” I heard the woman say. “My own opinion is that he suspects. Therefore you must act quickly—as before.”
“I—I am hesitating,” the man’s voice replied. “I can’t bring myself to do it. I really can’t!”
“Bosh! Then leave it to me,” she urged, in a hard, rasping voice. “You’re becoming timid—chicken-hearted. It isn’t like you, surely.”