wly melting its way through the darkness. I noted that spot
as marking the probable position of the setting moon. I decided that as
soon as this infernal inquisition was over, I would get rid of Jervaise
and find some God-given place in which I might wait for the dawn. I knew
that there must be any number of such places between the Farm and the
Hall. I was peering westward towards the rolling obscurity of hills and
woods that were just beginning to bulk out of the gloom, when I heard the
click of the door latch.

I should not like to be put in the witness-box and cross-examined by
Jervaise as to my reason for entering the house with him that night. All
that part of me with which I have any sort of real friendship, wanted
quite definitely to stay outside. That would have been the tactful thing
to do. There was no reason why I should intrude further on the mystery of
Brenda's disappearance; and as a matter of fact I was no longer very
keenly interested in that brilliant and fascinating young woman's affairs.
The plan that I had in mind when the door opened was to say politely to
Jervaise, "I'll wait for you here"--I had a premonition that he would
raise no objection to that suggestion--and then when he and Miss Banks
were safely inside, I meant to go and find rapture in solitude. The moon
was certainly coming out; the dawn was due in three hours or so, and
before me were unknown hills and woods. I had no sort of doubt that I
should find my rapture. I may add that my plan did not include any further
sight of Jervaise, his family, or their visitors, before breakfast next
morning.

I had it all clear and settled. I was already thrilling with the first
ecstasies of anticipation. But when the door was opened I turned my back
on all that magical beauty of the night, and accompanied Jervaise into the
house like a scurvy little mongrel with no will of its own.

I can't account for that queer change of purpose. It was purely
spontaneous, due to something quite outside the realm of reason. I was
certainly not in love with Anne, then. My only sight of her had left an
impression as of an amateur copy of a Rembrandt done in Indian ink with a
wet brush. It is true that I had heard her voice like the low thrilling of
a nightingale--following a full Handel chorus of corncrakes.

* * * * *

She had evidently spent an active ten minutes while we waited for her. She
had done her hair, and she was, so far a