How much of this could he believe?  Gladly he would have fooled himself into believing it all, but the rational soul in him cast out credulity.  Every phrase of the letter was calculated for its impression.  And the very risk she had run, was not that too a matter of deliberate speculation?  She might succeed in her design upon Narramore; if she failed, the ’poorer man was still to be counted upon, for she knew the extent of her power over him.  It was worth the endeavour.  Perhaps, in her insolent self-confidence, she did not fear the effect on Narramore of the disclosure that might be made to him.  And who could say that her boldness was not likely to be justified?

He burned with wrath against her, the wrath of a hopelessly infatuated man.  Thoughts of revenge, no matter how ignoble, harassed his mind.  She counted on his slavish spirit. and even in saying that she did not ask him to release her, she saw herself already released.  At each reperusal of her letter he felt more resolved to disappoint the hope that inspired it.  When she learnt from Patty that Narramore was still ignorant of her history how would she exult!  But that joy should be brief.  In the name of common honesty he would protect his friend.  If Narramore chose to take her with his eyes open——­

Jealous frenzy kept him pacing the room for an hour or two.  Then he went forth and haunted the neighbourhood of New Street station until within five minutes of the time of departure of Patty’s train.  If Eve kept her promise to see the girl off he might surprise her upon the platform.

From the bridge crossing the lines he surveyed the crowd of people that waited by the London train, a bank-holiday train taking back a freight of excursionists.  There-amid he discovered Eve, noted her position, descended to the platform, and got as near to her as possible.  The train moved off.  As Eve turned away among the dispersing people, he stepped to meet her.

CHAPTER XXV

She gave no sign of surprise.  Hilliard read in her face that she had prepared herself for this encounter.

“Come away where we can talk,” he said abruptly.

She walked by him to a part of the station where only a porter passed occasionally.  The echoings beneath the vaulted roof allowed them to speak without constraint, for their voices were inaudible a yard or two off.  Hilliard would not look into her face, lest he should be softened to foolish clemency.

“It’s very kind of you,” he began, with no clear purpose save the desire of harsh speech, “to ask me to overlook this trifle, and let things be as before.”

“I have said all I can say in the letter.  I deserve all your anger.”

That was the note he dreaded, the too well remembered note of pathetic submission.  It reminded him with intolerable force that he had never held her by any bond save that of her gratitude.