“It happens that I am going by this train,” said Trefusis.  “I will see after Miss Lindsay.”

“Miss Lindsay has her maid with her,” said Sir Charles, almost stammering, and looking at Gertrude, whose expression was inscrutable.

“We can get into the Pullman car,” said Trefusis.  “There we shall be as private as in a corner of a crowded drawing-room.  I may travel with you, may I not?” he said, seeing Sir Charles’s disturbed look, and turning to her for express permission.

She felt that to deny him would be to throw away her last chance of happiness.  Nevertheless she resolved to do it, though she should die of grief on the way to London.  As she raised her head to forbid him the more emphatically, she met his gaze, which was grave and expectant.  For an instant she lost her presence of mind, and in that instant said, “Yes.  I shall be very glad.”

“Well, if that is the case,” said Sir Charles, in the tone of one whose sympathy had been alienated by an unpardonable outrage, “there can be no use in my waiting.  I leave you in the hands of Mr. Trefusis.  Good-bye, Miss Lindsay.”

Gertrude winced.  Unkindness from a man usually kind proved hard to bear at parting.  She was offering him her hand in silence when Trefusis said: 

“Wait and see us off.  If we chance to be killed on the journey—­which is always probable on an English railway—­you will reproach yourself afterwards if you do not see the last of us.  Here is the train; it will not delay you a minute.  Tell Erskine that you saw me here; that I have not forgotten my promise, and that he may rely on me.  Get in at this end, Miss Lindsay.”

“My maid,” said Gertrude hesitating; for she had not intended to travel so expensively.  “She—­”

“She comes with us to take care of me; I have tickets for everybody,” said Trefusis, handing the woman in.

“But—­”

“Take your seats, please,” said the guard.  “Going by the train, sir?”

“Good-bye, Sir Charles.  Give my love to Lady Brandon, and Agatha, and the dear children; and thanks so much for a very pleasant—­” Here the train moved off, and Sir Charles, melting, smiled and waved his hat until he caught sight of Trefusis looking back at him with a grin which seemed, under the circumstances, so Satanic, that he stopped as if petrified in the midst of his gesticulations, and stood with his arm out like a semaphore.

The drive home restored him somewhat, but he wee still full of his surprise when he rejoined Agatha, his wife, and Erskine in the drawing-room at the Beeches.  The moment he entered, he said without preface, “She has gone off with Trefusis.”

Erskine, who had been reading, started up, clutching his book as if about to hurl it at someone, and cried, “Was he at the train?”

“Yes, and has gone to town by it.”

“Then,” said Erskine, flinging the book violently on the floor, “he is a scoundrel and a liar.”