Midnight:  the church clock had begun to strike in a deep whirring chime, muffled among the million leaves of the wood.

That trio were in the train now, Isabel probably fast falling asleep, Hyde and Laura virtually alone for the run from Waterloo to Chilmark.

A handsome man, Hyde, and attractive to women, or so rumour and Yvonne Bendish affirmed.  If even Yvonne, who was Laura’s own sister, was afraid of Hyde! ...  Well, Hyde was to be given the hint to take himself off, and surely no more than such a hint would be necessary?  Val smiled, the prospect was not without a wry humour.  If he had been Hyde’s brother, what he had to say would not have said itself easily.  “Let us hope he won’t knock me down,” Val reflected, “or the situation will really become strained; but he won’t—­that’s not his way.”  What was his way?  The worst of it was that Val was not at all sure what way Hyde would take, nor whether he would consent to go alone.  A handsome man, confound him, and a picked specimen of his type:  one of those high-geared and smoothly running physical machines that are all grace in a lady’s drawingroom and all steel under their skins.  What a contrast between him and poor Bernard! the one so impotent and devil-ridden, the other so virile, unscrupulous, and serene.

Val stirred restlessly and gripped the rail of the bridge between his clenched hands.  His mind was a chaos of loose ends and he dared not follow any one of them to its logical conclusion.  What was he letting himself think of Laura?  Such fears were an insult to her clear chastity and strength of will.  Or, in any event, what was it to him?  He was Bernard’s friend, and Laura’s but he was not the keeper of Bernard’s honour. . . .  But Hyde and Laura . . . alone . . . the train with its plume of fire rushing on through the dark sleeping night. . . .

“In manus tuas . . .”  Val raised his head, and shivered, the wind struck chill:  he was tired out.  Yet only a second or so had gone by while he was indulging himself in useless regrets for what could never be undone, and still more useless anxiety for a future which was not only beyond his control but outside his province as Bernard’s agent.  That after all was his status at Wanhope, he had no other.  It was still striking twelve:  the last echo of the last chime trembled away on a faint, fresh sough of wind. . . .  A lolloping splash off the bank into the water—­what was that?  A dark blot among ripples on a flat and steely glimmer, the sketch of a whiskered feline mask . . .  Val made a mental note to speak to Jack Bendish about it:  otters are bad housekeepers in a trout stream.

“Hallo!  Good man!” Major Clowes was on his back in the drawingroom, in evening dress, and playing patience.  “I’ve tried Kings, Queens and Knaves, and Little Demon, and Fair Lucy, and brought every one of ’em out first round.  Something must be going to happen.”  With a sweep of his arm he flung all the cards on the floor.  “What do you want?”