Of course my future movements were uncertain.  I must speak to Eric first, and induce him to reopen communications with his family.  I would tell him how his brother grieved over his supposed death, how changed he was; and he should hear, too, of Gladys’s failing health and spirits.  I should not be wanting in eloquence on that subject.  If he loved Gladys he would not refuse to listen to me.

After a time I tried to set aside these thoughts, and to occupy myself with dressing for the evening.  We had a dinner-party that night.  Mrs. Fullerton and Lesbia were to be of the party.  They were going down to Rutherford the next day, so I should have to bid them good-bye.

The evening was very tedious and wearisome to me:  my head ached, and the glitter of lights and the sound of many voices seemed to bewilder me.  Lesbia came up after dinner to ask if I were not well, I was so pale and quiet.  We sat out on the balcony together in the starlight for a little while, until Mrs. Fullerton called Lesbia in.  I would gladly have remained there alone, drinking in the freshness of the night dews, but Jill came out and began chattering to me, until I went back with her into the room.

There was very little sleep for me that night.  When at last I fell into a dose, I was tormented by a succession of miserable dreams.  I was following a supposed Eric down long country roads in the darkness.  Something seemed always to retard me:  my feet were weighted with lead, invisible hands were pulling me back.  I heard him whistling in the distance, then I stumbled, and a black bog engulfed me, and I woke with a stifled cry.

I woke to the knowledge that the sun was streaming in at my windows, and that some sound like a falling plank had roused me from my uneasy slumbers.  It must be past six o’clock, I thought; surely the men must be at work.  Yes, I could hear their voices; and the next moment I had jumped out of bed, and was dressing myself with all possible haste.

It was nearly seven when I crept down into the drawing-room to reconnoitre the adjoining house.  As I unfastened the window I heard the same sweet whistling that had arrested my attention yesterday.

Without a moment’s hesitation I walked out on the balcony.  The young painter looked round in some surprise at the sound of my footsteps, and touched his cap with a half-smile.

‘It is a beautiful morning,’ I began nervously, for I wanted to make him speak.  ‘Have you been at work long?’

‘Ever since six o’clock,’ he returned, and I think he was a little surprised at hearing himself addressed.  ’We work early these light mornings.’  And then he took up his brush and went on painting.

I watched him for a minute or two without a word.  How was I to proceed?  My presence seemed to puzzle him.  Perhaps he wondered why a lady should take such interest in his work.  I saw him glance at me uneasily.

‘Will you let me speak to you?’ I said, in a very low voice, and as he came towards me, rather unwillingly, I continued:  ’I know the men call you Jack Poynter, but that is not your name.  You are Eric Hamilton; no, do not be frightened:  I am Gladys’s friend, and I will not injure you.’