* * * * *

Then in November came the preparations for the village concert.

They were stupendous.

All morning the little Erad piano shook with the Grande Valse and the Grande Polonaise of Chopin.  The diabolic thing raged through the shut house, knowing that it went unchallenged, that its utmost violence was licensed until the day after the concert.

Rowcliffe heard it whenever he drove past the Vicarage on his way over the moors.

XXII

Rowcliffe was now beginning to form that other habit (which was to make him even more remarkable than he was already), the hunting down of Gwendolen Cartaret in the open.

He was annoyed with Gwendolen Cartaret.  When she had all the rest of the week to walk in she would set out on Wednesdays before teatime and continue until long after dark.  He had missed her twice now.  And on the third Wednesday he saw her swinging up the hill toward Upthorne as he, leaving his surgery, came round the corner of the village by the bridge.

“I believe,” he thought, “she’s doing it on purpose.  To avoid me.”

He was determined not to be avoided.

* * * * *

“The doctor’s very late this afternoon,” said Mary.  “I suppose he’s been sent for somewhere.”

Alice said nothing.  She couldn’t trust herself to speak.  She lived in sickening fear that on some Wednesday afternoon he would be sent for.  It had never happened yet, but that made it all the more likely that it had happened now.

They waited till five; till a quarter-past.

“I really can’t wait any longer,” said Mary, “for a man who doesn’t come.”

* * * * *

By that time Rowcliffe and Gwenda were far on the road to Upthorne.

He had overtaken her about a hundred yards above the schoolhouse, before the road turned to Upthorne Moor.

“I say, how you do sprint up these hills!”

She turned.

“Is that you, Dr. Rowcliffe?”

“Of course it’s me.  Where are you off to?”

“Upthorne.  Anywhere.”

“May I come too?”

“If you want to.”

“Of course I want to.”

“Have you had any tea?”

“No.”

“Weren’t they in?”

“I didn’t stop to ask.”

“Why not?”

“Because I saw you stampeding on in front of me, and I swore I’d overtake you before you got round that corner.  And I have overtaken you.”

“Shall we go back?  We’ve time.”

He frowned.  “No.  I never turn back.  Let’s get on.  Get on.”

They went on at a terrific pace.  And as she persisted in walking about half a foot in front of him he saw the movement of her fine long limbs and the little ripple of her shoulders under the gray tweed.

Presently he spoke.