He touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?’ he entreated.
She did not reply, and he was conscious of a wild impulse to gather her into his arms; she was so like a helpless child, at the mercy of secret forces far stronger than she was. With an effort she had controlled herself, but her bowed head was still between her hands. As he looked down at her slender figure, with the dark burnished hair against the milky pallor of her skin, he knew that there was nothing in the world he would not do to save her even one moment’s distress.
‘Are you listening, Elizabeth? I want to tell you something about ourselves that I’ve known from the first hour I saw you. Will it spoil our friendship—spoil everything—if I tell you that I care for you?’
Her hands dropped suddenly to her lap. For an instant her brown eyes opened wide, and then she shrank back.
‘Why did you say that?’ she cried, and there was pain in her voice.
‘It’s the truth.’
‘If you knew the truth about me——’ she began, but broke off with a gesture of helplessness. ‘It’s impossible. . . . Don’t speak of it again. Promise me that you won’t!’ Her intensity startled him.
He shook his head. ‘I’m completely in the dark, Elizabeth,’ he said quietly. ‘Until you tell me everything——’
‘As if I wouldn’t tell you if I could!’ She rose to her feet once more and faced him. ‘I’ve been grateful for your friendship these last few days. But it’s got to come to an end now.’
‘Come to an end?’ he repeated blankly.
She bent her head.
‘I don’t want you to see me again,’ she said in a deliberate voice.
Dumbfounded, Alan could only stare at her.
‘You—you want me to clear out—for good?’ he said at last.
‘For good,’ she replied slowly.
An idea struck him, and he seized upon it eagerly: ‘Are you saying this because Sir Richard Templeton doesn’t approve?’
‘My decision has nothing to do with Sir Richard,’ was her reply. ‘I was going to write to you to-night, but I’m glad I’ve seen you instead. Now there can be no misunderstanding.’
‘Can’t we talk this over later?’ he asked. ‘Can’t I see you to-morrow—or some time during the week-end?’
She shook her head. ‘I shall probably be going out of town with Sir Richard this afternoon. I won’t be back here until one day next week. By that time let’s hope you’ll have forgotten all about me.’
‘Next week? I must see you before then,’ he insisted.
‘It’s quite impossible.’
Her refusal was decisive, and in the silence that followed he felt a chill creeping over him.
Elizabeth held out her hand. ‘Good-bye, Mr. Gilmour.’
She withdrew her cold fingers from his clasp, and he turned to the door. When he glanced back she was standing by the window, her face averted, and he walked slowly down the corridor. It was not the ending he had expected; even in his most pessimistic moments he had not dreamt that things would take this turn. He dragged himself upstairs to his room and dropped into an arm-chair by the window. Had she sent him away, he wondered, because he had confessed his love for her? No; he must search elsewhere for the reason. It was almost as if she had received a warning, a threat, to cut short their acquaintance. . . .
In the afternoon he went for a long walk in London’s streets and returned to the hotel determined to see Elizabeth and try to get some inkling of what was in her mind. But when he reached her room he found the door open, and a chambermaid was busy cleaning.
‘You’ve come to see Sir Richard Templeton, sir?’ she said. ‘He’s gone out of town for the week-end.’
‘Gone already?’
‘Yes, sir. If you want Sir Richard urgently, sir, they’ll have his address downstairs at the office. Just a moment, sir—I think he’s left a note of it on his desk.’ She returned from the next room with a slip of paper in her hand. ‘Here it is, sir. Holmdean House, Surrey. That’s Sir Richard’s country place.’
So Templeton had taken Elizabeth down to his house in the country! That put an end to any hopes of seeing her until after the week-end. Alan gloomily dined in the grill-room, and went to a music-hall afterwards, but the jokes of the star comedian only deepened his depression. He tumbled into bed with a bad headache, and awoke with a worse one next morning.
While he shaved, he had half a mind to take Inspector Tripp’s advice and clear out of the Marquise Hotel—clear right out of London and search for new interests, new impressions, anything that would make him forget all that had happened in these last few days.
The thought of breakfast nauseated him, but he ordered some strong coffee; and drinking it in his favourite seat by the open bedroom window, he acknowledged to himself the fact that he had never been so utterly miserable in his life.
The week-end seemed to spread out before him like a long, dull, flat road that stretched interminably to a grey horizon. He felt that everything which really mattered lay behind him. He recalled the Tuesday morning when he had first made the acquaintance of Inspector Tripp; and he realized that the motive which had subconsciously induced him to assist the detective had been the hope that, in doing so, he might be able to help Elizabeth Marlowe. But it was precious little help he’d given her! He had learned that Scotland Yard regarded her with suspicion, though it was possible she had an inkling of this herself. He had more than once pleaded with her to take him into her confidence, and she had refused—she had even rejected his friendship. . . . What was the best thing to do: to sit back and let events take their own course, or to make a final appeal to Elizabeth, and attempt to arrive at some kind of understanding?’
The thought that she was unhappy stung him into restless activity. He walked round St. James’s Park trying to think out a line of action. If he did nothing, he saw that he might have cause to reproach himself for the rest of his life. What if, in some moment of sudden panic, Elizabeth took some reckless course? . . . It was unthinkable to let matters stand as they were. It would be the act of a weakling, if not a cad, to hold back merely because she had asked him to do so, for ten chances to one she hadn’t been expressing her own desires. . . .
Holmdean! Could he possibly see her there? It might be managed, and it was worth a trial. He found that a train left at three-seventeen. The journey might turn out to be a mere wild-goose chase. On the other hand, he might live to bless the fact that he was making this final effort on her behalf.
CHAPTER XXII
THE MAN IN THE WOODS
Holmdean railway station lies snugly hidden among trees, and is sheltered on the north by a low, pine-clad hill. About ten minutes’ walk takes you to the village, with its groups of half-timbered cottages and red-tiled barns lying scattered around a wide stretch of magnificent greensward. Opposite the old grey church and the thatched lich-gate stands the inn, with its open cobbled courtyard. During summer week-ends the place is the haunt of motor-coaches; but now, in late October, the village had almost a deserted look, though a careful eye might have been able to detect, in a multitude of quiet hints, the unhurried and unchanging routine of village life.
Alan Gilmour, who had walked slowly from the station, paused to look around him. He was beginning to realize that to see Elizabeth Marlowe alone might be even more difficult than he had anticipated. She was here with Sir Richard Templeton, living in Templeton’s house, and the barrister’s attitude towards him was fairly evident from their interview last Tuesday night. Yes, things might be very difficult indeed. His eye lighted upon the inn by the roadside. There, he would be able at least to learn in which direction Holmdean House lay, so he strolled in and ordered tea. He was thankful to find himself alone in the place, and sat down beside the fire to think matters over and try to devise some unobtrusive way of getting in touch with Elizabeth Marlowe.