“Well,” I said, “and what do you suggest doing?”
“To-night I must disappear. I shall sleep in some obscure hotel across the water, and to-morrow you must call for me, and we’ll go together to fix upon our future ‘home.’” Then she inquired eagerly what impression her absence had produced at Ryhall, and I told her.
For a time she remained serious and thoughtful. Her countenance had changed.
“Then Mason came back, as I ordered her?”
“Yes,” I answered, “but won’t she miss those things of hers you are now wearing?”
“No. Because they were in a trunk that she had packed ready to send up to town. She won’t discover they’ve gone for some weeks, I feel sure.”
She described her night run from Chichester to Bournemouth, how she had escaped from Mason, taken train direct up to Birmingham, remained that night at the Grand, then went on to Leicester, where she had spent a day, arriving in London that evening at seven o’clock. In Bull Street, Birmingham, she had been recognised by a friend, the wife of an alderman, and had some difficulty in explaining why she was there alone.
Our present position was not without its embarrassments. I looked at the pretty woman who was about to pose as my wife, and asked,—
“And what name shall we adopt? Have you thought of one?”
“No. Let’s see,” she said. “How about Morton—Mr and Mrs William Morton?”