Leslie realised that she was walking at a much slower pace than her physical weakness justified. She was still a little shaky, but in every sense had recovered from the shock. Too sane to believe in ghosts, she had nevertheless been shaken by the terrible experience. She leaned heavily on Dick’s arm as they paced up the avenue to the house, turning on to the grass so that Arthur should not hear their footsteps and come out to give them a boisterous welcome. Presently, with a sigh, she dropped his arm.

“I’m glad I went out,” she said, in a low voice. “And I’m rather glad–” She did not finish the sentence.

The silence that followed was a little disturbing for both of them. Suddenly she faced him.

“Dick, do you want me to marry your brother?”

He did not answer.

“Do you – really?”

She heard his sigh in the dark. She could not see his face, for they stood in the shadow of a great cedar immediately before the house.

“I don’t know,” he said. There was a bleakness in his voice she had heard once before. “It isn’t a question of my liking. I can offer you no reason why you should not marry him. You must do what you want, Leslie. The decision must rest entirely with you – and if I were a praying man, I would spend the night praying that you did right.”

“Do you wish me to marry him?” she asked again.

“I cannot tell you.” His voice was hard, and there swept over her a wave of unreasonable anger and resentment against his detachment.

“I won’t ask you that question again,” she said, her voice trembling. “Good night, Dick.”

She ran into the hall and up to her room, and long after she had gone, he stood where she had left him, looking wistfully at the door which had closed upon her.

With something like despair at his heart, Dick Alford walked quickly along the road towards Fontwell Cutting. He had something to distract his mind for the moment.

There was no sign of the car, and, instead of passing through the cutting gates, he continued over the brow of the hill.