Would Sylvia be there, he had wondered, as he watched the cluster
of atoms on the quay, and in a little while he had seen her, standing
quite alone, at the very end of the breakwater that she might catch the
first glimpse of her lover. Others had traveled with them in the carriage
to London and there had been no opportunity of speech. All that he knew
was that she had been alone now for some weeks in the little house in
Hobart Place.
"One thing I see," he said. "You are not as troubled as you were. The
look of fear--that has gone from your eyes. Sylvia, I am glad!"
"There, were times," she answered--and as she thought upon them, terror
once more leapt into her face--"times when I feared more than ever, when
I needed you very much. But they are past now, Hilary," and her hand
dropped for a moment upon his, and her eyes brightened with a smile. As
they dined she told the story of those months.
"We returned to London very suddenly after you had gone away," she began.
"We were to have stayed through September. But my father said that
business called him back, and I noticed that he was deeply troubled."
"When did you notice that?" asked Chayne, quickly. "When did you first
notice it?"
Sylvia reflected for a moment.
"The day after you had gone."
"Are you sure?" asked Chayne, with a certain intensity.
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