The mist, which had hung like a spectral curtain over the little demesne of Martinhoe Manor, had almost entirely disappeared when, at a few minutes before eight, with all traces of his long journey obliterated, Andrew Tallente stepped out on to the stone-flagged terrace and looked out across the little bay below.  The top of the red sandstone cliff opposite was still wreathed with mists, but the sunlight lay upon the tennis lawn, the flower gardens below, and the rocks almost covered by the full, swelling tide.  Tall, and looking slimmer than ever in his plain dinner garb, there were some indications of an hour of strange and unexpected suffering in the tired face of the man who gazed out in somewhat dazed fashion at the little panorama which he had been looking forward so eagerly to seeing again.  Throughout the long journey down from town, he had felt an unusual and almost boyish enthusiasm for his coming holiday.  He had thought of his tennis racquet and fishing rods, wondered about his golf clubs and his guns.  Even the unexpected encounter with Miller had done little more than leave an unpleasant taste in his mouth.  And then, on his way down from “up over,” as the natives called that little strip of moorland overhead, he had vanished into the mist and had come out into another world.

“Andrew!  So you are out here?  Why did you not come to my room?  Surely your train was very punctual?”

Tallente remained for a moment tense and motionless.  Then he turned around.  The woman who stood upon the threshold of the house, framed with a little cascade of drooping roses, sought for his eyes almost hungrily.  He realised how she must be feeling.  A dormant vein of cynicism parted his lips as he held her fingers for a moment.  His tone and his manner were quite natural.

“We were, I believe, unusually punctual,” he admitted.  “What an extraordinary mist!  Up over there was no sign of it at all.”

She shivered.  Her eyes were still watching his face, seeking for an answer to her unasked question.  Blue eyes they were, which had been beautiful in their day, a little hard and anxious now.  She wore a white dress, simple with the simplicity of supreme and expensive art.  A rope of pearls was her only ornament.  Her hair was somewhat elaborately coiffured, there was a touch of rouge upon her cheeks, and the unscreened evening sunlight was scarcely kind to her rather wan features and carefully arranged complexion.  She still had her claims to beauty, however.  Tallente admitted that to himself as he stood there appraising her, with a strange and almost impersonal regard,—­his wife of thirteen years.  She was beautiful, notwithstanding the strained look of anxiety which at that moment disfigured her face, the lurking fear which made her voice sound artificial, the nervousness which every moment made fresh demands upon her self-restraint.

“It came up from the sea,” she said.  “One moment Tony and I were sitting out under the trees to keep away from the sun, and the next we were driven shivering indoors; It was just like running into a fog bank in the middle of the Atlantic on a hot summer’s day.”