CHAPTER XXIII “YOU seem to have managed your little affair rather clumsily,” said Baltazar. “What’s he doing here?” she asked wildly. “Probably catching you and Godfrey.” “He mustn’t see Godfrey here.” “That’s easily managed,” said Baltazar. “I’ll send him flying out of the telephone box. But what on earth could have put your husband on the track? What indiscretion have you been committing?” “I left a letter for him telling him I wouldn’t stay any longer in his house. He’s a traitor to his country.” Baltazar threw up his hands. “Oh, Lord! The usual idiocy. For a clever woman—well! Anyhow, I’ll head off Godfrey. When your husband spots you, use your brains. Don’t say a word to give yourself away.” “You’ll come back?” she cried, losing her head. “I’ll see,” said he. He left her, and fetched a compass round the station, mingling as much as possible with the never-ceasing throng of soldiers and civilians and women and luggage, until he arrived at the row of telephone boxes. There he found Godfrey, waiting his turn and fuming at the delay. “My boy,” said he, “here are all the elements of a first-class farce. The injured husband, Edgar Donnithorpe, has turned up. You had better make tracks as quick as you can.” “I suppose you gave him the hint,” snarled the young man, with set teeth. “You’re insulting your own blood to make such a damfool remark,” said Baltazar. “Go home, and stay there till I come.” Godfrey met the infernal eyes and, for all his anger and humiliation, knew that he had accused basely. “I apologize, sir,” said he, in his most haughty and military manner, and marched off. Baltazar hesitated. Should he or should he not return to Lady Edna? If he had escaped the eye of Edgar Donnithorpe, it were better to leave Lady Edna, injured innocent, to tell her tale of solitary retirement to sylvan depths where she could be remote from the consequences of his political turpitude. On the other hand, if he had been observed, or if Lady Edna had avowed his presence, his abandonment of her might be idiotically interpreted. He decided to return. He saw them at once through the moving traffic: the husband, his back towards him, gripping a handle of the truck on which the luggage was piled; the wife facing him, an ironical smile on her lips. A devilish handsome woman, thought Baltazar. The boy had taste. There she stood, slim, distinguished in her simple fawn coat and skirt and little hat to match, beneath which waved her dark brown hair, very cool, aristocratic and defiant. Baltazar came up to them. “Ah, Donnithorpe!” The thin, grey man wheeled round, and then Baltazar realized that he had made the wrong decision, for he was the last man the other expected to see. “You? What are you doing here?” he shouted.