“Go with Douglas, my dear one, if it will make _you_ happier,” said he, kissing her. To his surprise, she threw her arm round him, held him fast by the shoulder, and looked at him with extraordinary earnestness. He gave a little laugh, and disengaged himself gently, saying, “Dont you think your nervousness is taking a turn rather inconvenient for Douglas?” She let her hands fall; closed her lips; and passed quietly out. He went to the window and watched her as she entered the carriage. Douglas held the door open for her; and Conolly, looking at him with a sort of pity, noted that he was, in his way, a handsome man and that his habit of taking himself very seriously gave him a certain, dignity. The brougham rolled away into the fog. Conolly pulled down the blind, and began to pack his portmanteau to a vigorously whistled accompaniment. CHAPTER XVII Conolly returned from Glasgow a little before eight on Monday evening. There was no light in the window when he entered the garden. Miss McQuinch opened the door before he reached it. “What!” he said. “Going the moment I come in!” Then, seeing her face by the hall lamp, he put down his bag quickly, and asked what the matter was. “I dont know whether anything is the matter. I am very glad you have returned. Come into the drawing-room: I dont want the servants to hear us talking.” “There is no light here,” he said, following her in. “Is it possible you have been waiting in the dark?” He lit a candle, and was about to light a lamp when she exclaimed impatiently, “Oh, I did not notice it: what does it matter? Do let the lamp alone, and listen to me.” He obeyed, much amused at her irritation. “Where has Marian gone to?” she asked. “Is she out?” he said, suddenly grave. “You forget that I have come straight from Glasgow.” “I have been here since three o’clock. Marian sent me a note not to come on Sunday—that she should be out and that you were away. But they tell me that she was at home all yesterday, except for two hours when she was out with Sholto. She packed her trunks in the evening, and went away with them. She told the cabman to drive to Euston. I dont know what it all means; and I have been half distracted waiting here for you. I thought you would never come. There is a note for you on your dressing-table.” He pursed his lips a little and looked attentively at her, but said nothing. “Wont you go and open it?” she said anxiously. “It must contain some explanation.” “I am afraid the explanation is obvious.” “You have no right to say that. How do you know? If you are not going to read her letter, you had better say so at once. I dont want to pry into it: I only want to know what is become of Marian.” “You shall read it by all means. Will you excuse me whilst I fetch it?” She stamped with impatience. He smiled and went for the letter, which, after a brief absence, he placed unopened on the table before her, saying: “I suppose this is it. I laid my hand on it in the dark.”