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"You must realise, Jenny, the unfortunate position into which your answers are leading you," said Sir Chichester with a trace of bluster. Hillyard could have laughed. As if she didn't realise exactly the drift and meaning of every word which she uttered. Jenny was not at all perturbed by Sir Chichester's manner. Her face took on a puzzled look. "I don't understand, sir." "No? Let me make it clear!
A little gasp broke from her lips. "But not in your handwriting," Hillyard hastened to add. "Whose then?" asked Harry Luttrell suddenly. "Stella's," answered Hillyard. A shiver ran from one to the other of that small company, and discomfort kept them silent. A vague dread stole in upon their minds. It was as though some uncanny presence were in the room.
Hillyard nursed a hope that some blunder had been made, and that he would find his compartment occupied. The controller, in his brown uniform with the brass buttons and his peaked cap, stood at the steps of the car with the attendant. "Eleven and twelve," said Hillyard, handing to him his ticket.
A very large majority of non-volleyers in singles have won the ladies' championship, and I think that fact helps to prove my argument. Miss Maud Watson, Miss Rice, Mrs. Hillyard, the late Miss Robb, Miss Sutton, Miss Boothby and myself are base-liners. Miss Dod and Mrs. Sterry are the only two volleyers. Every girl, however, should learn how to volley.
Sir Charles needed a moment or two after he had set down to recover his equipoise. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Luttrell told me you were both off to Rackham Park this week for Gatwick." "That's right! But I shan't get down until Friday afternoon," said Hillyard. The waiter put the glass of whisky-and-soda at his side, and he took a drink from it.
The earth had moved since the interrogatory had begun and the sunlight now played upon the key and transmuted it into a bright jewel. Martin Hillyard stepped forward and lifted it up. A faint, a very faint light, as from the far end of a long tunnel began to glimmer in his mind. "I must think it out," he whispered to himself; and at once the key filled all his thoughts.
But there were tact and discretion too, as Hillyard was to learn. For Mr. Blacker still croaked at the other end of the table. "It's right and just and all that of course. But you are taking too high a risk, Luttrell." The very silence at the table made it clear to Hillyard that Luttrell stood alone in his judgment.
Hillyard had assured her that she was normal in every respect "as completely normal a woman as I have ever seen," she put it and should have no complications.
"It is the postman," he said as though the delivery of letters along the Dinder River were the most commonplace of events. "The postman!" cried Hillyard. "What in the world do you mean?" "Yes," Hamet explained. "He carries letters between Abyssinia and Senga on the Blue Nile. He is now on his way back to Abyssinia." "But how long does it take him?" Hillyard asked in amazement.
"I will stay, if I may," said Hillyard uncomfortably. "I will go, of course, when " and he could not bring himself to complete the sentence. Stella, however, added the words, though in a quieter voice and with less triumph than she had used before. "When he comes. Yes, do stay. I shall be glad." Slowly the day drew in. The sunlight died away from the trees in the park.
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