Indeed even to himself he acknowledged that Garratt Skinner had shown an unexpected kindness, although he was sure of the reason for the act.  He had no doubt that Garratt Skinner had labored in those quarries himself, and perhaps had himself picked up in bygone days, as he stooped over his work, tobacco thrown over the walls by some more fortunate man.

“I am glad you acknowledge that,” said Sylvia, but her voice did not relent from its hostility.  She stood without further word, expecting him to take his leave.  Chayne recollected with how hopeful a spirit he had traveled down from London.  His fine diplomacy had after all availed him little.  He had gained certainly some unexpected knowledge which convinced him still more thoroughly that the sooner he took Sylvia away from her father and his friends the better it would be.  But he was no nearer to his desire.  It might be that he was further off than ever.

“You are returning to London?” she asked.

“Yes.  I have to call at the War Office to-morrow.”

Sylvia had no curiosity as to that visit.  She took no interest in it whatever, he noticed with a pang.

“And then?” she asked slowly, as she crossed the hall with him to the door.  “You will go home?”

Chayne smiled rather bitterly.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Into Sussex?”

“Yes.”

She opened the door, and as he came out on to the steps she looked at him with a thoughtful scrutiny for a few moments.  But whether her thoughts portended good or ill for him, he could not tell.

“When I was a boy,” he said abruptly, “I used to see from the garden of my house, far away in a dip of the downs, a dark high wall standing up against the sky.  I never troubled myself as to how it came to have been built there.  But I used to wonder, being a boy, whether it could be scaled or no.  One afternoon I rode my pony over to find out, and I discovered—­What do you think?—­that my wall was a mere hedge just three feet high, no more.”

“Well!” said Sylvia.

“Well, I have not forgotten—­that’s all,” he replied.

“Good-by,” she said, and he learned no more from her voice than he had done from her looks.  He walked away down the lane, and having gone a few yards he looked back.  Sylvia was still standing in the doorway, watching him with grave and thoughtful eyes.  But there was no invitation to him to return, and turning away again he walked on.

Sylvia went up-stairs to her room.  She unclenched her hand at last.  In its palm there lay a little phial containing a colorless solution.  But there was a label upon the phial, and on the label was written “cocaine.”  It was that which had struck at her influence over Walter Hine.  It was to introduce this drug that Archie Parminter had been brought down from London and the West End clubs.

“It’s drunk a good deal in a quiet way,” Archie had said, as he made a pretence himself to drink it.