She sat down by the table, turning her face away and screening it from him with her hand. Marston gave one look at her. He stepped out, and crossed the lawn to the bottom of the garden. The gate at the end of the path there swung open violently, and he found himself face to face with Robert Lucy. "What have you done with Mrs. Tailleur?" he said. Lucy's head was sunk upon his breast. He did not look at him nor answer. The two men walked back in silence up the lawn. "You don't know where she is?" said Marston presently. "No. I thought I did. But--she is not there." He paused, steadying his voice to speak again. "If I don't find her, I shall go up to town by the midnight train. Can you give me her address there?" "You think she has gone up to town?" Marston spoke calmly. He was appeased by Lucy's agitation and his manifest ignorance as to Kitty's movements. "There's nothing else she could do. I've got to find her. Will you be good enough to give me her address?" "My dear Mr. Lucy, there's really no reason why I should. If Mrs. Tailleur has not gone up to town, her address won't help you. If she has gone, your discreetest course by far, if I may say so----" "Is what?" said Lucy sternly. "Why, my dear fellow, of course--to let her go." Lucy raised his head. "I do not intend," he said, "to let her go." "Nor I," said Marston. "Then we've neither of us any time to lose. I won't answer for what she may do, in the state she's in." Marston swung slightly round, so that he faced Lucy with his imperturbable stare. "If you'd known Mrs. Tailleur as long as I have you'd have no sort of doubt as to what she'll do." Lucy did not appear to have heard him, so sunk was he in his own thoughts. "What was that?" said Marston suddenly. They listened. The gate of the Cliff path creaked on its hinges and fell back with a sharp click of the latch. Lucy turned and saw a small woman's figure entering the garden from the Cliff. He strode on toward the house, unwilling to be observed and overtaken by any guests of the hotel. Marston followed him slowly, pondering at each step of the way. He heard footsteps, quick stumbling footsteps, and a sound like a hoarse, half-suffocating breath behind him. Then a woman's voice, that sank, stumbling, like the footsteps, as it spoke. "Mr. Lucy," it said, "is it you?" Marston went on. Lucy was in the room with his sister. He was sitting with his back to the open window as Marston came in by it. The voice outside was nearer; it whispered, "Where is Mr. Lucy?" "Somebody's looking for you, Lucy," said Marston. And the three turned round. Mrs. Hankin stood in the window, holding on to the frame of it and trembling. Her face, her perfect face, was gray, like the face of an old woman. It was drawn and disfigured with some terrible emotion. Lucy went to her. She clung to his arm, and held him on the threshold.