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, bare-headed 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."
