“Yes. We are staying the night there. To-night a motor-car belonging to a friend of my father’s is coming from Winchester to take us for a trip through Devonshire and Cornwall.”
“Well, Ella, you certainly gave us both a turn, appearing so suddenly,” declared Lucie. “Only half an hour ago we were speaking of you, and, like every one else, believed that you were dead.”
“I wonder who started such a report?” she said. “Why did they say that I had died?”
“To trace the source of a false report is always difficult,” I said. “Somebody surmises something and tells some one else, and the second person, in recounting it, declares the surmise to be the truth. It is almost always so.”
“There certainly could be no motive in saying that Ella was dead, as far as I can see,” Lucie declared. “But,” she added, “why let us worry about the past? You have come back to us—back really from the grave.”
“Yes,” I said, still holding her hand. “I believed, Ella, that you were dead long ago. The memory of that last night when we walked through the wet streets of Bayswater has ever remained a bitter one.”
“No, no,” she cried. “Do not recall it. I, too, have suffered agonies of regret. Why is it that we meet again—like this?” and I noted that her splendid eyes were turned upon her friend in askance.
Yes. She suspected that Lucie and I were lovers, and such a conclusion was, after all, but natural.
“You are surprised, no doubt, to meet us together,” laughed Lucie. “But if you knew the truth regarding our acquaintance you would be even more surprised.”
“Then Godfrey is not—”