She let Hillyard drink his tea and light a cigarette before she approached the question which was torturing her.

“You had a good time in the Sudan!” she began.  “Lots of heads?”

“Yes.  I had a perfect time.”

“And your friend?  Captain Luttrell.  Did you meet him?”

Hillyard had pondered on the answer which he would give to her when she asked that question.  If he answered, “Yes,”—­why, then he must go on, he must tell her something of what passed between Luttrell and himself, how he delivered his message and what answer he received.  Let him wrap that answer up in words, however delicate and vague, she would see straight to the answer.  Her heart would lead her there.  To plead forgetfulness would be merely to acknowledge that he slighted her; and she would not believe him.  So he lied.

“No.  I never met Luttrell.  He was away down in Khordofan when I was on the White Nile.”

Stella Croyle had turned a little away from Hillyard when she put the question; and she sat now with her face averted for a long while.  Nothing broke the silence but the ticking of the clock.

“I am sorry,” said Hillyard.

No doubt her disappointment was bitter.  She had counted very much, no doubt, on this chance of the two men meeting; on her message reaching her lover, and a “little word” now and again from him coming to her hands.  Some morning she would wake up and find an envelope in the familiar writing waiting upon the tray beside her tea—­that, no doubt, had been the hope which she had lived on this many a day.  Hillyard was not fool enough to hold that he understood either the conclusions at which women arrived, or the emotions by which they jumped to them.  But he attributed these hopes and thoughts with some confidence to Stella Croyle—­until she turned and showed him her face.  The sympathy and gentleness had gone from it.  She was white with passion and her eyes blazed.

“Why do you lie to me?” she cried.  “I met Harry this morning.”

Hillyard was more startled by the news of Luttrell’s presence in London than confused by the detection of his lie.

“Harry Luttrell!” he exclaimed.  “You are sure?  He is in England?”

“Yes.  I met him in Piccadilly outside Jerningham’s”—­she mentioned the great outfitters and provision merchants—­“he told me that he had run across you in the Sudan.  What made you say that you hadn’t?”

Hillyard was taken at a loss.

“Well?” she insisted.

Hillyard could see no escape except by the way of absolute frankness.

“Because I gave him your message, Mrs. Croyle,” he replied slowly, “and I judged that he was not going to answer it.”