“Don’t fear, old chap, I’ll give you a ring as soon as anything is going on.”
Saturday, the fourth of March, was bright and warm, but just before sunset a sharp easterly breeze sprang up and, with a falling barometer, we knew that our vigilance would remain unrewarded. So again we played bridge until Roseye grew sleepy and then retired. Certainly we did not appear to meet with any luck.
On Sunday morning we all went to the pretty little church of Swalecliffe, and in the afternoon I went out for a pleasant stroll with Roseye through the park and leafless woods.
Again I pressed her to reveal to me what she knew regarding that mysterious woman who was in association with the fellow Eastwell.
But once again she steadfastly declined to reveal anything.
“No, no!” she protested. “Please don’t ask me, Claude.”
“But surely I have a right to know!” I declared. “Your enemies are mine; and we are fighting them together. We have agreed to marry, Roseye, therefore you may surely trust me with your secret!”
I had halted at a stile before crossing our path leading into the wood, and, as I held her hand in mine, I looked straight into her big blue eyes.
She drew a long breath, and her gaze wavered. I saw that she now relented, and that she was unable to refute my argument.
I pressed her hand and, in a deep, earnest voice, urged: