"I wanted to see you," I said simply. She gave a terrified glance round in the direction of the house. "I can't talk to you here. Don't you see how impossible it is? You must go away at once." I shook my head. "Not till we've fixed up something," I said. "Tell me where I can meet you, and I'll clear out immediately." She answered me with a look of distress that made me feel an absolute brute. "Christine dear," I whispered passionately, "I must see you and talk to you. It's the only thing in the world that matters the least to me." For a moment there was no reply. She seemed to be making a desperate attempt to come to some decision. "I shall be in Shalston to-morrow," she said at last, in the same hurried whisper. "There is a shop next to the station--a confectioner's shop with a small room upstairs. If you will be there at half-past three I will try and meet you." I was about to say something, but with an almost piteous movement of her hands she interrupted me. "No, no," she said. "Don't stop here. Go at once--please--for my sake." There may be stout-hearted people in the world who could resist an appeal like this, but I am certainly not one of them. I let my eyes dwell in a long, refreshing look on her dear up-turned face (it was a look which had to last me for over twenty-four hours), and then, without another word, I slipped back noiselessly out of sight. As a Yankee mate I once knew used to say, it could "snow pink" for all I cared. When you love somebody as I love Christine, the thought of meeting them becomes so absorbing that it is precious difficult to take anything else seriously. In the light of what had just happened I felt that all my previous ideas required an immediate and thorough spring cleaning, but for the time being such a mental effort was hopelessly beyond me. My brain seemed to be wholly occupied in repeating those two magic phrases, "Half-past three" and "The shop next the station," which kept chasing each other through my head like some beautiful refrain. The only practical point which I did manage to grasp was the important fact that I must get away without being seen. As far as anyone in the house was concerned this feat appeared to be simplicity itself; the danger was that I might run into Manning. I was still very much in the dark about his relations with Christine, but, whatever they were, it would be fatal to let him suppose that I had been hanging about in the neighbourhood of "The Laurels." Besides, if I met him now I should probably be unable to resist the desire to kick him, which would certainly complicate matters to a most unfortunate extent. Under the circumstances, it seemed to me that my best plan was to work my way round the hedge, and get out into the main road at the top of the hill. This would allow Manning a comfortable start, and it would also give me the additional advantage of being able to see whether the coast was dear.