He ran down the stairs of the mansion just as Bridget Cookson arrived with the lift at the third floor.  She recognised the disappearing figure, and stood a moment at the door of the flat, looking after it, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.

PART II

CHAPTER IX

‘Is she out?’

The questioner was William Farrell, and the question was addressed to his cousin Hester, whom he had found sitting in the little upstairs drawing-room of the Rydal lodgings, partly knitting, but mostly thinking, to judge from her slowly moving needles, and her absent eyes fixed upon the garden outside the open window.

‘She has gone down to the lake—­it is good for her to be alone a bit.’

‘You brought her up from Torquay?’

’I did.  We slept in London, and arrived yesterday.  Miss Cookson comes this evening.’

‘Why doesn’t she keep away?’ said Farrell, impatiently.

He took a seat opposite his cousin.  He was in riding-dress, and looked in splendid case.  From his boyhood he had always been coupled in Hester’s mind with the Biblical words—­’ruddy and of a cheerful countenance’; and as he sat there flushed with air and exercise, they fitted him even better than usual.  Yet there was modern subtlety too in his restless eyes, and mouth alternately sensitive and ironic.

Hester’s needles began to ply a little faster.  A spring wind came through the window, and stirred her grey hair.

‘How did she get over it yesterday?’ Farrell presently asked.

‘Well, of course it was hard,’ said Hester, quietly.  ’I let her alone, poor child, and I told Mrs. Weston not to bother her.  She came up to these rooms and shut herself up a little.  I went over to my own cottage, and came back for supper.  Then she had got it over—­and I just kissed her and said nothing.  It was much best.’

‘Do you think she gives up hope?’

Hester shook her head.

‘Not the least.  You can see that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When she gives up hope, she will put on a black dress.’

Farrell gave an impatient sigh.

’You know there can’t be the smallest doubt that Sarratt is dead!  He died in some German hospital, and the news has never come through.’

’The Red Cross people at Geneva declare that if he had died in hospital they would know.  The identification disks are returned to them—­so they say—­with remarkable care.’

‘Well then, he died on the field, and the Germans buried him.’

‘In which case the poor soul will know nothing—­ever,’ said Hester sadly.  ‘But, of course, she believes he is a prisoner.’

’My dear Hester, if he were, we should certainly have heard!  Enquiries are now much more thorough, and the results much more accurate, than they were a year ago.’