Cyril spent the night in a state of pitiable indecision. Should he or should he not risk a visit to Anita? If the police were shadowing him, it would be fatal, but he had somehow lately acquired the conviction that they were not. On the other hand, if he could only see her, how it would simplify everything! As she distrusted both Guy and Miss Trevor, even if his plot succeeded, she would probably refuse to leave England unless he himself told her that he wished her to do so. Besides, there were so many details to be discussed, so many arrangements to be talked over. "Yes," he said to himself as he lay staring into the darkness, "it is my duty to see her. I shall go to her not because I want to...." A horrid doubt made him pause. Was he so sure that his decision was not the outcome of his own desire? How could he trust his judgment in a matter where his inclinations were so deeply involved? Yet it would be shocking if he allowed his own feelings to induce him to do something which might be injurious to Anita. It was a nice question to determine whether her need of him was sufficient to justify him in risking a visit? For hours he debated with himself but could arrive at no conclusion. No sooner did he resolve to stay away from her than the thought of her unhappiness again made him waver. If he only knew why she was so unhappy, he told himself that the situation would not be so unendurable. When he had talked to her over the telephone, she had seemed cheerful; she had spoken of Guy and Miss Trevor with enthusiasm. What could have occurred since then to make her distrust them and to plunge her into such a state of gloom? As he tossed to and fro on his hot, tumbled bed, his imagination pictured one dire possibility after another, till at last he made up his mind that he could bear the uncertainty no longer. He must see her! He would see her! Having reached this decision, Cyril could hardly refrain from rushing off to her as soon as it was light. However, he had to curb his impatience. Three o'clock was the only hour he could be sure of finding her alone; so he must wait till three o'clock. But how on earth, he asked himself, was he going to get through the intervening time? He was in a state of feverish restlessness that was almost agony; he could not apply himself to anything; he could only wait--wait. Although he knew that there was no chance of his meeting Anita, he haunted the neighbourhood of the "George" all the morning. Every few minutes he consulted his watch and the progress of the hands seemed to him so incredibly slow that more than once he thought that it must have stopped altogether. Finally, finally, the hour struck.