If Jenny were bound to see Leonard Octon that evening, why had she not sent for him to her own house?  In order that the servants might not know, and spread the gossip among their friends in other households?  For fear that some of the neighbors, to whom she had sacrificed him, might pass by and see him going in or coming out, or even might call and encounter him there?  A visit from the Aspenicks, from Lacey, from Alison, was not impossible.  Who could say that Fillingford himself would not do as, in fact, he had done, and go to Breysgate on receipt of her letter?  There were plausible reasons to be given for her action, but they were not, coolly regarded, of sufficient strength to outweigh the great fact that, whereas a meeting at Breysgate might have been reckoned a bit of defiance and unfriendliness to Fillingford and his allies, a meeting at Ivydene or, above all, at Hatcham Ford was open to a far more damaging interpretation; it was a terrible risk, an indiscretion fatal if discovered.

For the motives which determined her action, it is necessary, I believe, to look deeper, less to her reasoning, more to her character, and to the feeling under whose sway she was.  Her obstinate courage refused to show the white feather to her distrust of Powers; that very distrust itself appealed to her love of a risk.  She would do the thing because it was dangerous ­because, if it came off well, the peril of it would have made it so much sweeter to her taste, would have given the flavor of mystery she loved, and been such a defiance of fate as was an attraction to her spirit.  “Once more!” always appealed to Jenny; to try once more ­once again beyond the point of safety.  “Once more!” has appealed to ­and has ruined ­many lovers.  Is not the scene, too, something?  To lovers a meeting in the old place is doubly a meeting, and becomes a memory of double strength.  The shrine has its sacredness as well as the deity; the spirit of the encounter is half lost in alien surroundings.  “Once more ­in the old place!” So she felt on the evening when she was to meet for the last time the man whom she dared not keep with her, but whose going wrung her heart.  Farewell it was ­it should be full farewell!

Lacey and I ran till we nearly reached the gates of the park; then we walked quickly, pausing now and again to listen for carriage wheels behind us.  We heard none.  Fillingford was lingering at Breysgate ­Chat must be playing her game well!  Jenny was in bed and perhaps would get up ­or Jenny was out and would soon be back; by some story or other Chat was fighting to keep him where he was.  The thought gave hope, and I pushed on.  Lacey kept pace with me; he never spoke till we came opposite to Ivydene, and saw the shrubberies of Hatcham Ford on our right.

“That’s as far as I go,” said Lacey, “for the present.  It’s no business of mine unless my father comes ­and wants me.”

I left him standing in the road, just opposite the gate of Hatcham Ford, which was open.  I went on to Ivydene and knocked.  I waited, but nobody came.  I knocked again impatiently.  There was a clatter of hob-nailed shoes along the stone passage inside.  The door was opened by the boy in the red cap.

“Ah, Alban, how are you?  Is your father in?”

“No, sir ­mother’s out, too, sir.  I’m taking care of the house.”  The boy looked pleased and proud ­almost as if he knew, though of course he did not, the importance he had possessed in our eyes that day.

“Do you know where your father is?”

“I think he’s at Hatcham Ford, sir.  Mr. Octon came across a little while ago and asked for father, and when father came to the door he told him to get his hat and come back to the Ford with him.  I expect he’s there still.”

“Thank you, Alban.  I’ll go and have a look.”

I expected to find Powers on guard, acting scout, before the door or in the shrubbery, and quickly crossed the road to the Ford.  As I went, I looked about for Lacey, but could see him nowhere.  Either he had gone back along the road toward Breysgate, to watch for Fillingford’s possible approach, or else he had thought he might attract attention if he loitered in the road, and had taken refuge from observation in the shrubberies.  I passed quickly along the gravel walk, went up to the hall door, and rang the bell.

A moment or two passed.  Then Octon himself opened the door.  The light of the gas jet over the doorway was full on his face; he was very pale, and drops of perspiration stood on his brow.  But when he saw me his face lit up with a sudden relief.  “You!  Thank God!” he said.  “The very man we wanted!  Come inside.”

“Is she here?”

“Yes.”

“She mustn’t stay a minute.  There’s danger.”

“I know there is,” he said grimly.  “We found that out from Powers.  I’ve killed him, Austin, or all but.  Come into the dining-room.”

I followed him into the room where I had once waited while he and Jenny talked.  As we passed through the hall, I noticed a portmanteau and a bag standing ready packed.

In the dining-room Jenny was crouching on the floor beside Powers; she was giving him something to drink out of a wineglass.  The man lay there inert.  I went up and looked at him, bending down close.  There were marks of fingers on his neck; he had been half strangled.

Jenny had taken no notice when I came in.  Now she looked up.  “It’s all right, he’s coming to,” she said.  “I thought he was gone, though.  We made him confess what he’d done, you know.  Then he grew insolent, and Leonard ­” She turned to Octon with a smile.  She seemed to say, “Well, you can guess what Leonard would do under those circumstances!”

“You must come away from here,” I said in a low urgent voice.  “Fillingford may be here at any moment.  He went to Breysgate first ­but he’ll come on here.  He knows ­and he means to find you.”

“If he knows, what does it matter whether he finds me or not?  And what are we to do with Powers?”

“Leave him to me.  I’ll get him back to his own house.”  I had it in my mind that I could call Lacey to help me to carry him.

While I spoke, she was giving the man another drink.  He gurgled in his throat and moved uneasily.  She looked up again:  “He’s doing all right, but ­hadn’t Leonard better go?”

“Nonsense,” said Octon.  “I’m here to see it through.”

“No, no,” I said hastily.  “She’s right, you go.  This may be a police matter, if he takes it that way ­or if Fillingford comes and finds him.  If you’re here, you may be arrested.  Then everything’s got to come out!  For her sake you ought to go.”

“You must go, Leonard,” said Jenny.  She propped Powers’s head on a footstool and rose to her feet.

“It would be the best thing,” said Octon.  “It’s only to-night instead of to-morrow morning.”

His decision was taken.  He lingered only one minute.  He held out both his hands to her, and she put hers in them.  I looked away; by chance my eyes fell on the mantelpiece.  It struck me differently somehow; in an instant it occurred to me that the picture of the beautiful young girl was not there.

“There’s a fast train to London at 8.15.  You can catch that,” I said.  “And you’d better go abroad to-morrow.  I can let you know what happens.”

“Wire as soon as you can ­Grand Hotel to-night ­to-morrow, the Continental, Paris.  Write to-morrow, and send my portmanteau; I’ll take my bag.  I shall come back if there’s any trouble.”

“No, no, you mustn’t,” said Jenny.

“Well, we’ll see about that presently.  Good-by.”

I watched him go into the hall and take up his bag; then I came back to Jenny.

“Now come away,” I said, quickly.  “You don’t want to meet Fillingford, and he may be here any minute.  I’ll see you safe on the road, then I’ll come back to this fellow.  We can hush it all up ­it’s only a matter of enough money.”

I heard the wheels of a carriage in the road.  Jenny held up her hand for silence.  We listened a moment.  The carriage stopped at the gate of Hatcham Ford.  It was Fillingford ­Would he meet Octon?  I feared that Octon would take no pains to avoid him.

In that I was wrong.  The situation had sobered him.  He had seen where lay the best chance for Jenny, and he would not throw it away.  When the carriage drove up, he was just by the gate of Ivydene ­Lacey, hidden in the shrubberies, saw him there.  He drew back into the shadow of the gate and watched Fillingford get out.  Fillingford, intent on Hatcham Ford, never glanced in his direction.  When Fillingford had gone in, he resumed his way to the station.

When I heard the carriage stop, I cried to Jenny, “He mustn’t find you!  Run upstairs somewhere ­I’ll manage to send him away.”

“What’s the good?” she asked.  “We’ve got to have it out; we may as well have it out now.”  She looked at me haughtily.  “I’m not inclined to hide from Lord Fillingford.”

Powers’s hand went up to his throat; he coughed and gurgled again.  She looked down at him with a smile.  “What’s the good of hiding me?  You can’t hide that!”

“I won’t let him in at all!” I cried.

“What’s the good?  He’ll know I’m here if you do that.  It’s best to let him in.  I’m not afraid to meet him, and I’d rather ­know to-night.”

His knock came on the door.  I went and opened it.  He started at the sight of me.

“You, Mr. Austin?  I was looking for Mr. Octon.”

“He’s not here,” I answered.  “He has just left for London.”

He seemed to hesitate for a moment.  “Then are you alone here?” he asked.

Before I had time to think of my answer, Jenny’s voice came from the dining-room.  “I am here.  Bring Lord Fillingford into this room, Austin.”

He did not start now, but he bit his lip.  I stood aside to let him pass, and shut the door after him.  Then I followed him into the dining-room.  Jenny was standing near the fire beside Powers, who kept shifting his head about on the footstool with stiff awkward movements.  Fillingford came to the middle of the room and bowed slightly to Jenny; then his eyes fell on Powers and, in sudden surprise, he pointed his finger at him.

“My servant ­and your spy,” she said.  “He has had a narrow escape of his life.”

“So it’s true,” he said ­not in question, but to himself, in a very low voice.  “True to-night ­and true often before!”

She made no attempt at denial.  “Yes, I have often been here.  I’ll answer any question you like to put ­and answer it truthfully.

“What I know is enough.  I impute no more than I know.”

“I thank you for that at least.  It’s only justice, but justice must be hard to give ­from you to me.”

“But what I know is ­enough.”

“You’ve a perfect right to say so.”

Both were speaking calmly and quietly.  There was no trace of passion in their voices.  Neither took any heed of me, but I stayed ­since she had not bidden me go.

He took a letter from his pocket.  I recognized the large square envelope as of the shape which Jenny used.

“The letter you were so good as to send me this afternoon,” he said, holding it up in his hand.

“Yes.”

“I read it with very great pleasure.”  He tore it into four pieces and flung them on the table before him.  They lay there between him and Jenny.  He looked at her with a smile.  “You’re not like Eleanor Lacey for nothing,” he said.

She smiled, too, and raised a hand to restrain me, for at his bitter taunt I had made a step forward, meaning to interpose.

“Probably not!” she answered.  Then she turned to me.  “You’ll look after Powers for me, won’t you, Austin?  It’s only a matter of money with him, as we all know ­and Mr. Cartmell has plenty.”

“I’ll do all I can to prevent your being troubled at all.”

“I shan’t be troubled ­but I shall be grateful to you.  Lord Fillingford, in return for your compliment, may I beg a favor of you?” She had given a quick glance at the clock.

“Anything that it’s in my power to grant,” he answered with a little bow.

“It’s nothing great ­only the loan of your carriage.  I came here on foot ­and I’m tired.”

“It’s quite at your disposal.”

“It’s not inconvenient?  You’re not hurried?”

“I can walk, Miss Driver.”

“Please don’t do that.  I’ll send it back for you as quickly as possible.”

“As you please,” he said courteously.

“Good-night, Austin,” she said to me, holding out her hand.  “Don’t come with me.  I’d rather find my own way to the carriage, if you and Lord Fillingford will let me.”

I took her hand.  She gave mine a quick light squeeze.  “God bless you, Austin,” she said.  Then, with a last slight salutation to Fillingford, she walked out of the room ­and we heard the hall door shut behind her.  Fillingford stood where he was for a moment, then slowly sat down.  I went to the table and collected the fragments of Jenny’s letter.  I made a gesture toward the fire.  He nodded.  I flung the pieces into the flames.

Powers slowly raised his head, leaning on his elbow.  “Where am I?” he muttered.

“Not where you ought to be,” I said.  He laid his head down again, grumbling inarticulately.

“We want no publicity about this, Mr. Austin,” said Fillingford ­he spoke quite in his usual reserved and measured way.  “I shall be willing to second your efforts in that direction.  This man had better be got out of the town quietly ­that can probably be managed by using the appropriate means.  For the rest, no public announcement having been made, nothing need be said.  It will probably be desirable for me to go away for a few weeks ­that is, if Miss Driver prefers to remain at Breysgate.  Or, if she takes a short holiday, I can remain ­just as she wishes.”

“I think it can all be managed, Lord Fillingford.  We must try to have as little gossip as possible ­for everybody’s sake.”

“You don’t want my help to-night?”

“Oh, no.  I can get him home.  He’ll soon be well enough, I hope, to understand that it’s his interest to hold his tongue, and I can settle the rest with him to-morrow.  If he is inclined to make trouble ­”

“I think that we can persuade him between us.  If you need my help, let me know.”

“I’m much obliged to you for that.”  I paused for a moment.  “You, I suppose, have no business with him just now?”

He looked at me gravely.  “I am informed that he has already been paid for his services,” he said.  “Such services, Mr. Austin, are, as your tone implied, not very pleasant to receive.  But the greater fault seems to lie with those whose methods make them necessary.”  He rose to his feet, saying, “It’ll be some time before the carriage gets back.  I think I’ll start on my way and meet it.  You’re sure I can be of no use?  No?  Then good-night, Mr. Austin.”

“Good-night, Lord Fillingford.”

“You will communicate with me, if necessary?”

“Yes.  I don’t see why it should be.”

With these words we had reached the door, and I opened it.  At the moment I saw the lamps of his carriage at the gate.

“Look, the carriage is back already; it can’t have taken her half the way!”

He made no reply, and we walked quickly down the path together.

“You took Miss Driver home, Thompson?” Fillingford asked the coachman.

“No, my lord, not to Breysgate.  Miss Driver wished to go to the station.  I drove there and set her down.  She told me to come back here immediately, my lord.”

“To the station?” we both exclaimed, startled into an involuntary show of surprise.

The man hesitated a little.  “I ­I beg pardon, my lord, but I think Miss Driver meant to go by train.  She asked me to drive quickly ­and she’d just have managed the eight-fifteen.”

I looked at my watch, it was just on half-past eight.

“Perhaps she only wanted to see ­somebody ­off,” said Fillingford, soon recovered from his momentary lapse into a betrayal of surprise.  He turned to me.  “That’ll be it, Mr. Austin.”

I looked at his face ­there was no telling anything from it.  It had given no sign of change as he made his reference to Octon.  I think that he must have seen something in mine, for he added in a low voice, “Very likely that’s all.”  He seemed to urge this view upon me.

Well, it was not an unlikely view.  She had risked much for a last talk with Octon.  She might well be tempted to seek another, a final, farewell.  But I was very uneasy.

Without more words, merely with a polite lift of his hat, Fillingford got into his carriage and was driven off toward the Manor.  I turned and walked slowly back to the house.  Lacey came out from the shrubbery on the left of the path.  “Well?” he said.

“I want your help inside,” I said.

He asked no questions.  We went in together and set to work with Powers.  With the help of brandy and a shaking we got him on his feet.  Soon he was well enough to be led home.  His wife was in by now and opened the door for us.  I told her that he had had a kind of seizure, but was much better ­there was no need of a doctor.  I sent her to get his bed ready.  Then I had a word with him.

“Can you understand business?” I asked.

“Yes ­I feel queer, though.”

“Hold your tongue and you shall be well paid.  Talk, and you won’t get a farthing.  Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Mr. Austin.”

“Very well, act on it for to-night ­and I’ll come and see you to-morrow.”

I left his wife getting him to bed.  I do not think that the story of the seizure imposed on her, but she pretended to accept it.  Probably she was accustomed to his having accidents ­the risks of the trade he practiced were considerable.  Meanwhile Lacey had been over to the Ford again, and left a written message on the table, saying that Octon had been called to town and would not be back that night.  All else could wait till to-morrow.  Now I wanted to get back to Breysgate.  Lacey, too, was for home, which he could reach quicker by the public road than by coming round through our park.  He had put to me no question at all up to now.  Just as we were parting he did ask two.

“We didn’t bring it off, I gather?”

I shook my head.  Most certainly we had not brought it off.

“How did the ­the governor behave?”

One speech of “the governor’s” had been perhaps a little bitter.  That was his right; and the bitterness was in the high manner ­as Jenny herself had felt.

“He behaved ­perfectly.”  That description was ­from our side ­only his due.

Lacey looked at me, smiled woefully, and shrugged his shoulders.  “Yes ­and so he’s lost her!” he said.  He turned on his heel, and swung off into the darkness.  I was left with a notion that we possessed a man more than we had counted in our neighborhood.

I made for the Priory ­ventre-a-terre.  Something had come home to Jenny when Fillingford tore up her letter and told her that she was not like Eleanor Lacey for nothing.  Till then she had been negotiating ­negotiating still, though ever so defiantly ­still trying to find out what he thought, trying to see what view he took, even though she ostentatiously abstained from self-defense.  At that action and at that speech she had frozen.  “Probably not!” That was her acceptance of his action and his words.  She had taken them for her answer ­the tearing of the letter and his one bitter speech.

The big house lay hospitably open to the night ­lights in the windows, lamps burning in the hall and illuminating the approach.  Well, it was early evening yet ­only nine o’clock.  All might be safe and well within doors, and yet the doors be open.  I ran up the steps in a passion of excitement.

As I reached the door, I was met ­not by Loft nor by any of the men ­but by the trembling figure of a woman.  Chat had heard feet on the steps ­she had been in waiting!  My heart sank as lead.  Whom had she been waiting for?  Not for me!

“I did my best, I did my best,” she whispered, catching me by the lapel of my greatcoat.  “I kept him as long as I could.  What happened?”

“The worst of luck.  Is she here?”

“Here?” She seemed amazed.  “No!  Did you see her?  Where have you left her?”

“Then she’s gone,” I said.

Chat stood where she was for a second, then dropped into the hall-porter’s chair which was just behind her.  She began to sob violently, rocking herself to and fro.  “I tried, I tried, I tried!” she kept saying through her sobs.

I became suddenly aware that Loft had come into the hall.  He appeared not to notice Chat.  He stood there, grave and attentive, awaiting my orders.

“Miss Driver has been suddenly called away.  I don’t think she’ll be home to night.  If she should come, the night-watchman will let her in, and Miss Chatters will be up.  The rest of you needn’t wait after your usual time.”

“Very good, sir,” said Loft.  Gravely, with his measured step, he walked away and left us alone together.

Chat stopped sobbing for a moment ­to ask me a supremely unimportant question.

“Was she very angry with me, Mr. Austin?”

“She didn’t say one word about you.”

“Oh, I’m glad of that, I’m glad of that!” Her sobbing again broke the silence of the great empty house.