Part 39 (1/2)

The driver consulted the time-table with a businesslike air.

”The next train leaves at 12.40,” he informed her. ”After that there isn't another one stopping there till 4.5.”

Mrs. Holymead consulted her watch anxiously.

”It's almost half-past twelve now. Can you catch the 12.40?” she asked.

The driver looked dubious.

”I'll try, ma'am, but it'll take some doing. It depends whether I get a clear run at Trafalgar Square.”

”Try, try!” she cried. ”Catch it, and I will double your fare.”

She caught the train with a few seconds to spare. She had a first-cla.s.s compartment to herself, and as the train rushed out of London, and the grimy environs of the metropolis gradually gave place to green fields, she endeavoured to compose her mind and collect her thoughts for her coming interview with the daughter of the murdered man. But her mind was in such a distraught condition that she could think of no plan but to sacrifice herself in order to save her husband. With cold hands pressed against her hot forehead, she muttered again and again, as if offering up an invocation that gained force by repet.i.tion:

”I must save him. I will tell her everything.”

The train ran into Horleydene shortly after two, and Mrs. Holymead was the only pa.s.senger who alighted at the lonely little wayside station which stood in a small wood in a solitude as profound as though it had been in the American prairie, instead of the heart of an English county. The only sign of life was a dilapidated vehicle with an elderly man in charge, which stood outside the station yard all day waiting for chance visitors.

”Cab, ma'am?” exclaimed the driver of this vehicle in an ingratiating voice, touching his hat.

”No, thank you,” replied Mrs. Holymead. ”I'll walk.”

Miss Fewbanks was astonished when the parlourmaid announced the arrival of Mrs. Holymead. She hurried to the drawing-room to meet her visitor, but the warm greeting she offered her was checked by her astonishment at the ill and worn appearance of her beautiful friend.

”Please, don't,” said the visitor, as she held up a warning hand to keep away a sisterly kiss. She looked at Miss Fewbanks with the air of a woman nerving herself for a desperate task, and said quickly: ”I have dreadful things to tell you. You can never think of me again except with loathing--with horror.”

The impression Miss Fewbanks received was that her visitor had taken leave of her senses. This impression was deepened by Mrs. Holymead's next remark.

”I want you to save my husband.”

There was an awkward pause while Mrs. Holymead waited for a reply and Miss Fewbanks wondered what was the best thing to do.

”Say you will save him!” exclaimed Mrs. Holymead. ”Do what you like with me, but save him.”

”Don't you think, dear, you would be better if you had a rest and a little sleep?” said Miss Fewbanks. ”I am sure you could sleep if you tried. Come upstairs and I'll make you so comfortable.”

”You think I am mad,” said the elder woman. ”Would to G.o.d that I was.”

”Come, dear,” said Miss Fewbanks coaxingly. She turned to the door and prepared to lead the way upstairs.

”Sleep!” exclaimed Mrs. Holymead bitterly. ”I have not had a peaceful sleep since your father was killed. I have been haunted day and night. I cannot sleep.”

”I know it was a dreadful shock to you, but you must not take it so much to heart. You must see your doctor and do what he tells you. Mr. Holymead should send you away.”

At the mention of her husband's name Mrs. Holymead came back to the thought that had been foremost in her mind.

”Will you save him?” she exclaimed.

”You know I will do anything I can for him,” answered the girl gently.

Her intention was to humour her visitor, for she was quite sure that Mr.