“I can’t play to-night,” she said, standing up and meeting my eyes. “I wanted to give you a parting voluntary.” “Was that Wagner, Beatrice?” asked Lady Osprey looking up from her cards. “It sounded very confused.” I took my leave. I had a curious twinge of conscience as I parted from Lady Osprey. Either a first intimation of middle-age or my inexperience in romantic affairs was to blame, but I felt a very distinct objection to the prospect of invading this good lady’s premises from the garden door. I motored up to the pavilion, found Cothope reading in bed, told him for the first time of West Africa, spent an hour with him in settling all the outstanding details of Lord Roberts β, and left that in his hands to finish against my return. I sent the motor back to Lady Grove, and still wearing my fur coat—for the January night was damp and bitterly cold—walked to Bedley Corner. I found the lane to the back of the Dower House without any difficulty, and was at the door in the wall with ten minutes to spare. I lit a cigar and fell to walking up and down. This queer flavour of intrigue, this nocturnal garden-door business, had taken me by surprise and changed my mental altitudes. I was startled out of my egotistical pose and thinking intently of Beatrice, of that elfin quality in her that always pleased me, that always took me by surprise, that had made her for example so instantly conceive this meeting. She came within a minute of midnight; the door opened softly and she appeared, a short, grey figure in a motor-coat of sheepskin, bareheaded to the cold drizzle. She flitted up to me, and her eyes were shadows in her dusky face. “Why are you going to West Africa?” she asked at once. “Business crisis. I have to go.” “You’re not going—? You’re coming back?” “Three or four months,” I said, “at most.” “Then, it’s nothing to do with me?” “Nothing,” I said. “Why should it have?” “Oh, that’s all right. One never knows what people think or what people fancy.” She took me by the arm, “Let’s go for a walk,” she said. I looked about me at darkness and rain. “That’s all right,” she laughed. “We can go along the lane and into the Old Woking Road. Do you mind? Of course you don’t. My head. It doesn’t matter. One never meets anybody.” “How do you know?” “I’ve wandered like this before.... Of course. Did you think”—she nodded her head back at her home—“that’s all?” “No, by Jove!” I cried; “it’s manifest it isn’t.” She took my arm and turned me down the lane. “Night’s my time,” she said by my side. “There’s a touch of the werewolf in my blood. One never knows in these old families.... I’ve wondered often.... Here we are, anyhow, alone in the world. Just darkness and cold and a sky of clouds and wet. And we—together. “I like the wet on my face and hair, don’t you? When do you sail?” I told her to-morrow. “Oh, well, there’s no to-morrow now. You and I!” She stopped and confronted me. “You don’t say a word except to answer!” “No,” I said.