“I wish I could cry,” she said suddenly, finding herself sitting on a log where low oaks met the forest and the open meadows, and where they had often paused in mountain climbs to look far across the panorama of hills and valley below.  “But now we must face this thing sensibly.  What is to be done?  They must not know that I know, and in some way we must get out of this tangle.  Even if Peter were free, Cherry would not be free,” she decided, “and so the only thing to do is to help them, until it dies away.”

No suspicion of the truth stabbed her, although she remembered Martin and his strange tale of a message and wondered about it a little in her thoughts.  To whom had Cherry been sending that telegram if not to Peter?  And if to Peter, why had she not simply telephoned?  Because she had known that Peter was not in his office, because she had been going to meet him somewhere.  But where?  Well, at the boat.  Martin had heard her tell the boy that he must catch that boat.

Alix did not guess the truth.  But she guessed enough to make her feel frightened and sick.  She could not suppose that Cherry and Peter had planned to go away on that boat together, because at most her thoughts would have grasped the idea of one or two days’ absence only, and they had given her no warning of that.  But until this instant the thought of the passionate desire that enveloped them had not reached her; she had imagined Cherry’s feeling for Peter to be something only a little stronger than her own.

Now she thought of Cherry’s beauty, her fragrance and softness, the shine in her blue eyes and the light on her corn-coloured hair, and knew that life for them all, of late, had been mined with frightful danger.

“Cherry would be disgraced, and Martin—­Martin would kill her, if he found her out! ...  Oh, my little sister!  She would be town talk; she is so reckless, she would do anything—­she would be a public scandal, and the papers would have her pictures—­Dad’s little yellow-headed Charity!  Oh, Dad,” she said, looking up into the dark, “tell me what to do!  I need you so!  Won’t you somehow tell me what to do!”

Silence and darkness.  But even in the gloom Alix could tell that fog was lifting, and a sudden sweep of breeze, like a tired breath, went over the tops of the redwoods.

Steadily came the change.  The darkness, by imperceptible degrees, lifted.  The world grew gray as if with moonshine, trees and bushes began to stand out dimly from the mass of shadows.  On the road below her Alix heard a wagon rattle, the mud-spattered wagon from the Portuguese dairy upon the ridge; and past her, leaving a dark wake of brushed dewdrops on the pearled grass, a cottontail fled silently.

She noted with surprise that she could see the grass now, although it had been invisible a few moments ago.  She could see it, and presently its brownness showed, and the rich, solid green of the oaks lifted from the dull twilight that had enveloped the world.