“My dear fellow,” said Baltazar, “I don’t think there’s a damned thing in the world that I wouldn’t dare. Haven’t you found that out?” So they stood there for a while longer, talking in their islet beneath the glass roof of the busy station, and the boy’s heart was filled with anger and wild hatred of the thick-shouldered, smiling man, with the powerful face and infernal dancing eyes. Then suddenly Baltazar strode away at a great pace, and Godfrey, turning, saw that he was cutting off Lady Edna, who had entered, preceded by a porter wheeling her luggage. Before he had time to overtake him, Baltazar was already taking off his hat to an amazed lady and had imperiously checked the porter. “Lady Edna,” said he, “I’m here to prevent Godfrey and yourself from committing the insanity of your lives.” She said, mistress of herself, “I don’t understand you, Mr. Baltazar. You seem to be taking an outrageous liberty. I am going to stay at the house of a friend who has asked Godfrey to be my fellow-guest.” Before Baltazar could reply, Godfrey came hurrying up with his slight limp and plunged into angry explanations. She looked at the clock. “If you telephone home now,” she said coolly, “a servant will have ample time to bring your things.” “By God, yes!” said Godfrey, angrily depositing the sheaf of periodicals on her luggage. “Have you got the tickets?” “Of course.” He marched away across the station. “Porter——” said Lady Edna. But no porter was there, for, unperceived by either of the lovers, Baltazar had slipped five shillings into the man’s hand and told him to come back later. “There’s heaps of time,” said Baltazar. “Now, my dearest lady, what is the good of make-believe? Cards on the table. You’re going to make a bolt with Godfrey and throw your cap over the windmills. There’s a nice little cottage in a wood—in the depths of the New Forest, I presume, lent you by a friend who is represented by one solitary old woman.” “How do you know that?” she asked, her soft eyes hardening in their characteristic way. “Godfrey has surely not been such a——“—she paused for a word—“well—such an imbecile as to tell you?” “Godfrey has told me nothing. You may be certain of that. His fury against me is sufficiently obvious.” “Then how do you know?” “That’s my affair,” smiled Baltazar. “Lady Edna,” said he, “don’t you think that my coming the heavy father like this puts you into rather an absurd position?” She replied, white-lipped: “I’ll never forgive you till I’m dead!” “I’ve naturally counted on the consequences of your resentment,” said Baltazar. “What do you propose to do?” “If you persist, to thrust upon you the displeasure of my company, without luggage—just like Godfrey.” “You——” she began indignantly. And then suddenly: “Oh, my God!” and clutched him by the arm. He followed her stare across the station, and there, in the archway of the Booking Hall, peering from right to left in his rat-like way, stood Edgar Donnithorpe.