She could get no further. Covering her eyes with one hand, by an
effort of repression she wept a silent trickle, without a sigh or sob.
Winterborne took her other hand. "What has happened?" he said.
"He has come."
There was a stillness as of death, till Winterborne asked, "You mean
this, Grace--that I am to help you to get away?"
"Yes," said she. "Appearance is no matter, when the reality is right.
I have said to myself I can trust you."
Giles knew from this that she did not suspect his treachery--if it
could be called such--earlier in the summer, when they met for the last
time as lovers; and in the intensity of his contrition for that tender
wrong, he determined to deserve her faith now at least, and so wipe out
that reproach from his conscience. "I'll come at once," he said.
"I'll light a lantern."
He unhooked a dark-lantern from a nail under the eaves and she did not
notice how his hand shook with the slight strain, or dream that in
making this offer he was taxing a convalescence which could ill afford
such self-sacrifice. The lantern was lit, and they started.