“Come in here for a moment.” She jerked her hand toward the open door. They went in. The window was of frosted glass. “I can’t go with you,” she said, looking up hopelessly through her veil. “You see how it is! Aunt Sophy and Nancy are going up. Everything is against us. Perhaps it is as well. Good-by.” He had never been so nearly disposed to sacrifice himself for a woman. Then, with his unquenchable selfishness, he remembered too that a pretty woman would be positively useful in his mode of life: many a dubious bit of business had been pulled off by a good dinner and an attractive woman. She was so devoted to him. A devoted woman was invaluable and very rare. They usually played their own game. He kissed her turbulently on her closed eyes, through the crisp net, on her burning cheeks and dry lips. They both felt the rush and sway of the train as it rushed into the station. They both became conscious of a figure in the narrow door. She lifted her head, unclasped her fierce arms, to see Jethro. “We were saying good-by,” she stammered. Edred was cool. “Pam and I have always been chums--we were left in the world together,” he said in a matter-of-fact way, and insolently meeting the doubt in Jethro’s steely eyes. “Good-by, old girl. By the way, I’ll send you a telegram when I get to town, just to let you know I am all right.” He went out into the sun, got into a carriage with the Turles, raised his hat gayly as the train steamed out. He was gone. It was all over. The railway banks were gay with snapdragons, self-sown; ferns had sown themselves in the cutting and thrust out their fronds like forked green tongues. The station-master’s black-and-tan terrier bounded round Pamela’s skirts. Every little thing was emphasized--as it would be in a nightmare. “Did you think to ask Aunt Sophy the name of her kitchen-range?” asked Jethro, as they went slowly up the hill. She was on the box beside him. She felt cold and sick. She looked back now and then at the empty seats. “It is the Camelot,” she returned mechanically, and for the rest of the drive she kept saying to herself, in a dazed way, “Camelot,” as if it were a new word. After tea Jethro drove to the Flagon House, saying he might stay to supper. Folly Corner was quiet, growing mystic with twilight. Pamela went down the bricked path, without a glance at the rich mosaic of the herbaceous borders, and stood between the poplars, her arms on the gate. By and by a boy came along the road. When he got close she saw that he carried a red envelope. She took it languidly, saying that there was no answer, and paying him sixpence for porterage. “Be ready to start for London with me at half-past ten to-night. Am coming back. Will wait under yew.” It had been sent from Liddleshorn. Edred was waiting at Liddleshorn now--waiting for the night, which was always kind to criminals.