the coachman had got down and was smoking; it took
him a moment or two to mount. In that space of time, while we waited at
the gate, Octon came out from Hatcham Ford and lounged across the road
toward us. At the same instant a landau drove up rapidly from the other
direction, going toward Catsford. In it sat Lady Sarah Lacey. She stared
at Octon and cut him dead; she bowed coldly and slightly to Jenny; she
inclined her head again in response to a low bow and a florid flourish
of his cap from Powers. I lifted my hat, but received no response. Jenny
returned the salute as carelessly as it was given, bestowed a
recognition hardly more cordial on Octon, and stepped into the brougham
which had now come up. As we drove off, Powers stood grinning soapily;
Octon had turned on his heel again and slouched slowly back, to his own
house.

Jenny threw herself into the corner of the brougham, her body well away,
but her eyes on my face. For many minutes she sat like this; I turned my
eyes away from her; the silence was uncomfortable and ominous. At last
she spoke.

"You've guessed something, Austin?"

I turned my head to her. "I couldn't help it."

She nodded, rather wearily, then smiled at me. "The signal's at
'Danger,'" she said.

CHAPTER XII

SAVING A WEEK

Seen in retrospect, the history of the ensuing days stands out clearly;
subsequent knowledge supplies any essential details of which I was then
ignorant and turns into certainties what were, in some cases, only
strong suspicions at the moment. If it be wondered--and it well may
be--that any woman should choose to live through such a time, it is
hardly less marvelous that she could stand the strain of it. Brain and
feelings alike must have been sorely taxed. Jenny never faltered; she
looked, indeed, tired and anxious, but she had many intervals of gayety,
and, as the crisis approached, she was remarkably free from her not
unusual little gusts of temper or of petulance. To all around her she
showed graciousness and affection, desiring, as it seemed, to draw from
us expressions of attachment and sympathy, making perhaps an instinctive
attempt to bind us still closer to her, to secure us for friends if
anything went wrong in the dangerous work on which she was engaged.

She had a threefold struggle--one with Fillingford, one with Octon, the
last and greatest--really involving the other two--with herself.
Fillingford was pressing for her answer now. It was not so