deep whirring
chime, muffled among the million leaves of the wood.

That trio were in the train now, Isabel probably fast falling
asleep, Hyde and Laura virtually alone for the run from Waterloo
to Chilmark.

A handsome man, Hyde, and attractive to women, or so rumour and
Yvonne Bendish affirmed. If even Yvonne, who was Laura's own
sister, was afraid of Hyde! ... Well, Hyde was to be given the
hint to take himself off, and surely no more than such a hint
would be necessary? Val smiled, the prospect was not without a
wry humour. If he had been Hyde's brother, what he had to say
would not have said itself easily. "Let us hope he won't knock
me down," Val reflected, "or the situation will really become
strained; but he won't--that's not his way." What was his way?
The worst of it was that Val was not at all sure what way Hyde
would take, nor whether he would consent to go alone. A handsome
man, confound him, and a picked specimen of his type: one of
those high-geared and smoothly running physical machines that are
all grace in a lady's drawingroom and all steel under their
skins. What a contrast between him and poor Bernard! the one so
impotent and devil-ridden, the other so virile, unscrupulous, and
serene.

Val stirred restlessly and gripped the rail of the bridge between
his clenched hands. His mind was a chaos of loose ends and he
dared not follow any one of them to its logical conclusion. What
was he letting himself think of Laura? Such fears were an insult
to her clear chastity and strength of will. Or, in any event,
what was it to him? He was Bernard's friend, and Laura's but he
was not the keeper of Bernard's honour. . . . But Hyde and
Laura . . . alone . . . the train with its plume of fire rushing
on through the dark sleeping night. . . .

"In manus tuas . . ." Val raised his head, and shivered, the
wind struck chill: he was tired out. Yet only a second or so had
gone by while he was indulging himself in useless regrets for
what could never be undone, and still more useless anxiety for a
future which was not only beyond his control but outside his
province as Bernard's agent. That after all was his status at
Wanhope, he had no other. It was still striking twelve: the last
echo of the last chime trembled away on a faint, fresh sough of
wind. . . . A lolloping splash off the bank into the water--what
was that? A dark blot among ripples on a flat and steely
glimmer, the sketch of a whiskered