“But I can’t forget it!” he cried, covering his face with his hands. “I can’t—I can’t—it is all so terrible—horrible.”
In sympathy the girl took his arm. Her touch aroused him. Of a sudden all the strength of his being came to his aid.
“Forgive me, darling! Forgive me!” he craved.
And together they crossed the low old stile into the road which led down through a quaint little village, and out on the way to Haslemere.
On that same morning at noon Richard Allen again stood in the dining-room at Willowden, when Gordon Gray, alias Rex Rutherford, entered. He was in a light motor-coat, having just returned from his tour to Scotland.
“Well, Dick!” he cried cheerily in that easy, good-humoured way of his, that cheerful mannerism by which he made so many friends. “So you’ve had luck—eh?”
“Yes, after a narrow escape. Got caught, and had to fight a way out,” laughed the other.
“Not the first time. Do you recollect that night in Cannes two years ago? By Jove! I thought we were done.”
“Don’t let’s talk of nasty things,” his friend said. “Here’s the precious little map—the secret of the Wad Sus mines.”
“Splendid!” cried Gray, taking the small piece of folded paper to the window. “By Jove! it gives exact measurements in metres, and minute directions.”