“No, Miss. He’s only been here half an hour. The children are up in the schoolroom with Mam’selle.”

“Then I shall be between them,” said Jean. “Take me up.”

“Shall I wait with you, Miss?”

“No. Keep a look-out for Mrs. Ferse and tell her at once.”

The maid gazed at her admiringly and left her in the drawing-room. Setting the door ajar Jean stood listening. There was no sound. And she began to move silently up and down from door to window. If she saw Diana approaching she meant to run down to her; if Ferse came up she meant to go out to him. Her heart beat a little faster than usual, but she felt no real nervousness. She had been patrolling thus for a quarter of an hour when she heard a sound behind her, and, turning, saw Ferse just within the room.

“Oh!” she said: “I’m waiting for Mrs. Ferse; are you Captain Ferse?”

The figure bowed. “And you?”

“Jean Tasburgh. I’m afraid you wouldn’t know me.”

“Who was that with you?”

“Dinny Cherrell.”

“Where has she gone?”

“To see one of her uncles, I believe.”

Ferse uttered a queer sound—not quite a laugh.

“Adrian?”

“I think so.”

He stood turning those bright flickering eyes on the pretty room.

“Prettier than ever,” he said, “I’ve been away some time. Do you know my wife?”

“I met her staying at Lady Mont’s.”

“Lippinghall? Is Diana well?”

The words came out with a sort of hungry harshness.

“Yes. Quite.”

“And beautiful?”

“Very.”

“Thank you.”

Looking at him from under her long lashes Jean could see nothing in him from top to toe that gave the impression of derangement. He looked what he was—a soldier in mufti, very neat and self-contained, all—all but those eyes.

“I haven’t seen my wife for four years,” he said, “I shall want to see her alone.”

Jean moved towards the door.

“I’ll go,” she said.

“No!” The word came out with startling suddenness: “Stay there!” And he blocked the doorway.

“Why?”

“I wish to be the first to tell her that I’m back.”

“Naturally.”

“Stay there, then!”

Jean moved back to the window. “Just as you like,” she said. There was a silence.

“Have you heard about me?” he asked, suddenly.

“Very little. I know you haven’t been well.”

He came from the door. “Do you see anything the matter with me?”

Jean looked up, her eyes held his till they went flickering away.

“Nothing. You look very fit.”

“I am. Sit down, won’t you?”

“Thank you.” Jean sat down.

“That’s right,” he said. “Keep your eyes on me.”

Jean looked at her feet. Again Ferse uttered that travesty of a laugh.

“You’ve never been mentally sick, I take it. If you had you’d know that everybody keeps their eyes on you; and you keep your eyes on everybody. I must go down now. Au revoir!”

He turned quickly and went out, shutting the door. Jean continued to sit quite still, expecting him to open it again. She had a feeling of having been worsted, and a curious tingling all over, as if she had been too close to a fire. He did not open the door again, and she got up to do so herself. It was locked. She stood looking at it. Ring the bell? Hammer on it and attract the maid? She decided to do neither, but went to the window and stood watching the street. Dinny would be back soon and she could call to her. Very coolly she reviewed the scene she had been through. He had locked her in because he meant no one to interfere before he saw his wife—suspicious of everyone—very natural! A dim sense of what it meant to be looked on as deranged penetrated her young hard intelligence. Poor man! She wondered if she could get out of the window without being noticed, and, deciding that she couldn’t, continued to stand watching the end of the street for the appearance of relief. And, suddenly, without anything to cause it, a shiver ran through her, the aftermath of that encounter. His eyes! It must be terrible to be his wife. She threw the window wider, and leaned out…

CHAPTER 15

The sight of Jean at the window stayed Dinny and her uncle on the doorstep.

“I’m locked in the drawing-room,” said Jean, quietly; “you might let me out.”

Adrian took his niece to the car.

“Stay here, Dinny. I’ll send her out to you. We mustn’t make a show of this.”

“Take care, Uncle! I feel as if you were Daniel going into—”

With a wan smile Adrian rang the bell. Ferse himself opened the door.

“Ah! Cherrell? Come in.”

Adrian held out his hand; but it was not taken.

“I can hardly expect a welcome,” said Ferse.

“My dear fellow!”

“No, I can hardly expect a welcome, but I’m going to see Diana. Don’t try and prevent me, Cherrell—you or anyone.”

“Of course not! Do you mind if I fetch young Jean Tasburgh? Dinny is waiting for her in the car.”

“I locked her in,” said Ferse, sombrely. “Here’s the key. Send her away.”

He went into the dining-room.

Jean was standing just inside the door.

“Go out to Dinny,” said Adrian, “and take her away. I’ll manage. No trouble, I hope?”

“Only being locked in.”

“Tell Dinny,” said Adrian, “that Hilary is almost sure to be able to put you both up; if you go on there now I shall know where you are if I want you. You have pluck, young lady.”

“Oh, not specially!” said Jean: “Good-bye!” and ran downstairs. Adrian heard the front door close and went slowly down to the dining-room. Ferse was at the window watching the girls start the car. He turned round sharply. The movement was that of a man used to being spied on. There was little change in him, less thin, less haggard, and his hair greyer—that was all. His dress as neat as ever, his manner composed; his eyes—but then—his eyes!

“Yes,” said Ferse, uncannily, “you can’t help pitying me, but you’d like to see me dead. Who wouldn’t? A fellow has no business to go off his chump. But I’m sane enough now, Cherrell, don’t make any mistake.”

Sane? Yes, he seemed sane. But what strain could he stand?

Ferse spoke again: “You all thought I was gone for good. About three months ago I began to mend. As soon as I realised that—I kept dark. Those who look after us”—he spoke with concentrated bitterness—“must be so certain of our sanity that if it were left to them we should never be sane again. It’s to their interest, you see.” And his eyes, burning into Adrian’s seemed to add: ‘And to yours, and to hers?’ “So I kept dark. I had the will-power to keep dark in that place for three months, in my right mind. It’s only this last week or so that I’ve shown them I’m responsible. They want much more than a week before they’ll write home about it. I didn’t want them writing home. I wanted to come straight here and show myself as I am. I didn’t want Diana or anybody warned. And I wanted to make sure of myself, and I have.”

“Terrible!” said Adrian below his breath.

Ferse’s eyes seemed to burn into him again.

“You used to be in love with my wife, Cherrell; you still are. Well?”

“We are just as we were,” said Adrian, “friends.”

“You’d say that anyway.”

“Perhaps. But there is no more to say, except that I’m bound to think of her first, as I always have.”

“That’s why you’re here, then?”

“Gracious, man! Haven’t you realised the shock it will be to her? Perhaps you can’t remember the life you led her before you went in there? But do you think she’s forgotten? Wouldn’t it be fairer to her and to yourself if you came to my room, say, at the Museum, and saw her there for the first time?”

“No; I’ll see her here in my own house.”

“This is where she went through hell, Ferse. You may have been right to keep dark, as you call it, so far as the doctors are concerned, but you’re certainly not right to spring your recovery on her like this.”

Ferse made a violent gesture.