in that frame of mind which makes
light of obstacles: he drew back into the lane, ran, gathered himself
for an upward spring at the coping of the wall, leapt, grasped it,
struggled, drew up his weight with a mighty effort, threw a leg over,
and dropped, gasping and panting, into the shaded garden. It was quiet
there--peaceful as a glade set deep in the heart of a silent wood. He
lay for a few seconds where he had dropped; then, with a great effort to
get his breath, he rose and went quickly up the laurelled walks towards
the house. A moment more and he was abreast of the kitchen and its open
door, and in the presence of print-gowned, white-aproned women who first
exclaimed and then stared at the sudden sight of him.

"Mrs. Saumarez?" said Brent, frightened at the sound of his own voice.
"In?"

The cook, a fat, comfortable woman, turned on him from a clear fire.

"The mistress has not come in yet, sir," she said. "She went out very
early this morning on her bicycle, and we haven't seen her since. I
expect she'll be back for lunch."

Brent glanced at the open window of the room in which he had first
encountered Mrs. Saumarez and to which he had brought her the casket and
its contents.

"Can I go in there and sit down?" he asked. "I want to see Mrs.
Saumarez."

"Certainly, sir," answered cook and parlour-maid in chorus. "She can't
be long, surely."

Brent went further along and stepped into the room. Not long? He knew
very well that that room would never see its late occupant again! She
was gone of course.

The room looked much the same as when he had last seen it, except that
now there were great masses of summer flowers on all sides. He glanced
round and his observant eye was quick to notice a fact--beneath the
writing-table a big waste-paper-basket was filled to its edges with
torn-up papers. He moved nearer, speculating on what it was that had
been destroyed--and suddenly, behind the basket, he noticed, flung away,
crumpled, on the floor, the buff envelope of a telegram.

Brent, picking this up, expected to find it empty, but the message was
inside. He drew out and smoothed the flimsy sheet and read its contents.
They were comprised in five words: _Lingmore Cross Roads six-thirty_.

Of course that was from Mallett. He glanced at the post-marks. The
telegram had been sent from Clothford at seven o'clock the previous
evening, and received at Hathelsborough before eight. It was an
appointment without doubt.