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He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. Groping their way through one or two dark and mouldy-smelling vaults, the party ascended a flight of steps, which brought them to the hall. Trenchard glanced at the document. Flinging her back against it, she put her hands out, barring his way. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind. All the village was assembled in the churchyard. ‘She wants you. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. Come back—you must come back. “I never wanted to kick any one so much in my life as that second fellow.
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