He waked with a start to hear a question whispered at his ear.  “Where is she?  How has she passed this night?” The morning light was glimmering between the curtains.  The room was empty.  Yet surely those words had been spoken, actually spoken by a human voice....  He took his telephone instrument in his hand and lifted the receiver.  In a little while—­but a while too long for his impatience—­his call was acknowledged at the exchange.  He gave Stella Croyle’s number and waited.  Whilst he waited he looked at his watch.  The time was a quarter past seven.

An unfamiliar and sleepy voice answered him from her house.

“Will you put me on to Mrs. Croyle?” he requested, and the reply came back: 

“Mrs. Croyle went away with her maid last night.”

“Last night?” cried Hillyard incredulously.  “But I did not leave the house myself until well after six, and she had then no plans for leaving.”

Further details, however, were given to him.  Mrs. Croyle had called up a garage whence cars can be hired.  She had packed hurriedly.  She had left at nine by motor.

“Where for?” asked Hillyard.

The name of an hotel in the pine country of Surrey was given.

“Thank you,” said Hillyard, and he rang off.

She had run to earth in her usual way, when trouble and grief broke through her woman’s armour and struck her down—­that was all!  Hillyard lighted a cigarette and rang for his tea.  Yes, that was all!  She was acting true to her type, as the jargon has it.  But against his will, her face took shape before him, as he had seen it in the darkness of her room and ever since—­ever since!

He rang again, and more insistently.  He possessed a small, swift motor-car.  Before the clocks of London had struck eight he was travelling westwards along the King’s Road.  Hillyard was afraid.  He did not formulate his fears.  He was not sure of what he feared.  But he was afraid—­terribly afraid; and for the first time anger rose up in his heart against his friend.  Luttrell!  Harry Luttrell!  At this very moment he was changing direction in columns of fours upon the drill ground, happy in the smooth execution of the manoeuvre by his men and untroubled by any thought of the distress of Stella Croyle.  Well, little things must give way to great—­women to the exigencies of drill!

Meanwhile, Hillyard grew more afraid, and yet more afraid.  He swept down the hill to Cobham, passed between the Hut and the lake, and was through Ripley before the shutters in the shops were down.  The dew was heavy in the air; all the fresh, clean smell of the earth was in that September morning.  And as yet the morning itself was only half awake.  At last the Hog’s Back rose, and at a little inn, known for its comfort—­and its chef—­Hillyard’s car was stopped.

“Mrs. Croyle?” Hillyard asked at the office.

“Her maid is here,” said the girl clerk, and pointed.