harsh at times—and of course this isn’t going to make her any easier to live with.”
“Very well,” said Wrayford.
Stilling, with a look of relief, walked toward the window which opened on the terrace. “Gad! what a queer night! Hot as the kitchen-range. Shouldn’t wonder if we had a squall before morning. I wonder if that infernal skipper took in the launch’s awnings before he went home.”
Wrayford stopped with his hand on the door. “Yes, I saw him do it. She’s shipshape for the night.”
“Good! That saves me a run down to the shore.”
“Good night, then,” said Wrayford.
“Good night, old man. You’ll tell her?”
“I’ll tell her.”
“And mum about my mother!” his host called after him.
II
The darkness had thinned a little when Wrayford scrambled down the steep path to the shore. Though the air was heavy the threat of a storm seemed to have vanished, and now and then the moon’s edge showed above a torn slope of cloud.
But in the thick shrubbery about the boathouse the darkness was still dense, and Wrayford had to strike a match before he could find the lock and insert his key. He left the door unlatched, and groped his way in. How often he had crept into this warm pine-scented obscurity, guiding himself by the edge of the bench along the wall, and hearing the soft lap of water through the gaps in the flooring! He knew just where one had to duck one’s head to avoid the two canoes swung from the rafters, and just where to put his hand on the latch of the farther door that led to the broad balcony above the lake.
The boathouse represented one of Stilling’s abandoned whims. He had built it some seven years before, and for a time it had been the scene of incessant nautical exploits. Stilling had rowed, sailed, paddled indefatigably, and all Highfield had been impressed to bear him company, and to admire his versatility. Then motors had come in, and he had forsaken aquatic sports for the flying chariot. The canoes of birch-bark and canvas had been hoisted to the roof, the sailboat had rotted at her moorings, and the movable floor of the boathouse, ingeniously contrived to slide back on noiseless runners, had lain undisturbed through several seasons. Even the key of the boathouse had been mislaid—by Isabel’s fault, her husband said—and the locksmith had to be called in to make a new one when the purchase of the motorboat made the lake once more the centre of Stilling’s activity.
As Wrayford entered he noticed that a strange oily odor overpowered the usual scent of dry pine-wood; and at the next step his foot struck an object that rolled noisily across the boards. He lighted another match, and found he had overturned a can of grease which the boatman had no doubt been using to oil the runners of the sliding floor.
Wrayford felt his way down the length of the boathouse, and softly opening the balcony door looked out on the lake. A few yards away, he saw the launch lying at anchor in the veiled moonlight; and just below him, on the black water, was the dim outline of the skiff which the boatman kept to paddle out to her. The silence was so intense that Wrayford fancied he heard a faint rustling in the shrubbery on the high bank behind the boathouse, and the crackle of gravel on the path descending to it.
He closed the door again and turned back into the darkness; and as he did so the other door, on the land-side, swung inward, and he saw a figure in the dim opening. Just enough light entered through the round holes above the respective doors to reveal Mrs. Stilling’s cloaked outline, and to guide her to him as he advanced. But before they met she stumbled and gave a little cry.
“What is it?” he exclaimed.
“My foot caught; the floor seemed to give way under me. Ah, of course—” she bent down in the darkness—“I saw the men oiling it this morning.”
Wrayford caught her by the arm. “Do take care! It might be dangerous if it slid too easily. The water’s deep under here.”
“Yes; the water’s very deep. I sometimes wish—” She leaned against him without finishing her sentence, and he put both arms about her.
“Hush!” he said, his lips on hers.
Suddenly she threw her head back and seemed to listen.
“What’s the matter? What do you hear?”
“I don’t know.” He felt her trembling. “I’m not sure this place is as safe as it used to be—”
Wrayford held her to him reassuringly. “But the boatman sleeps down at the village; and who else should come here at this hour?”
“Cobham might. He thinks of nothing but the launch.’”
“He won’t tonight. I told him I’d seen the skipper put her shipshape, and that satisfied him.”
“Ah—he did think of coming, then?”
“Only for a minute, when the sky looked so black half an hour ago, and he was afraid of a squall. It’s clearing now, and there’s no danger.”
He drew her down on the bench, and they sat a moment or two in silence, her hands in his. Then she said: “You’d better tell me.”
Wrayford gave a faint laugh. “Yes, I suppose I had. In fact, he asked me to.”
“He asked you to?”
“Yes.”
She uttered an exclamation of contempt. “He’s afraid!”
Wrayford made no reply, and she went on: “I’m not. Tell me everything, please.”
“Well, he’s chucked away a pretty big sum again—”
“How?”
“He says he doesn’t know. He’s been speculating, I suppose. The madness of making him your trustee!”
She drew her hands away. “You know why I did it. When we married I didn’t want to put him in the false position of the man who contributes nothing and accepts everything; I wanted people to think the money was partly his.”
“I don’t know what you’ve made people think; but you’ve been eminently successful in one respect. He thinks it’s all his—and he loses it as if it were.”
“There are worse things. What was it that he wished you to tell me?”
“That you’ve got to sign another promissory note—for fifty thousand this time.”
“Is that all?”
Wrayford hesitated; then he said: “Yes—for the present.”
She sat motionless, her head bent, her hand resting passively in his.
He leaned nearer. “What did you’ mean just now, by worse things?”
She hesitated. “Haven’t you noticed that he’s been drinking a great deal lately?”
“Yes; I’ve noticed.”
They
