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Softly he stole back into the waiting-room, prepared to awaken her before the train shot by. Something told him that the rumble and roar would terrify her if she were asleep. Going quite close to her he bent forward and looked long and sadly upon the perfect face. Her hair was somewhat disarranged, her hat had a very hopeless tilt, her lashes swept low over the smooth cheek, but there was an almost imperceptible choke in her breathing. In her small white hand she clasped a handkerchief tightly, and –yes, he was sure of it–there were tear-stains beneath her lashes. There came to him the faint sob which lingers long in the breath of one who has cried herself to sleep. The spy passed his hand over his brow, sighed, shook his head and turned away irresolutely. He remembered that she was waiting for a man who was not her husband.

Far down the track a bright star came shooting toward Fossingford. He knew it to be the headlight of the flyer. With a breath of relief he saw that he was the only human being on the platform. Havens had failed again. This time he approached the recumbent one determinedly. She was awake the instant he touched her shoulder.

“Oh,” she murmured, sitting erect and looking about, bewildered. “Is it–has he–oh, you are still here? Has he come?”

“No, Miss Dering, he is not here,” and added, under his breath, “damn him!” Then aloud, “The train is coming.”

“And he didn’t come?” she almost wailed.

“I fancy you’d better try to sleep until morning. There’s nothing to stay awake for,” although it came with a pang.

“Absolutely nothing,” she murmured, and his pride took a respectful tumble.

As she began to rearrange her hair, rather clumsily spoiling a charming effect, he remonstrated.

“Don’t bother about your hair.” She looked at him in wonder for an instant, a little smile finally creeping to her lips. He felt that she understood something. “Maybe he’ll come after all,” he added quickly.

“What are you doing with my parasol?” she asked sleepily.

“I’m carrying it to establish your identity with Dudley if he happens to come. He’ll recognize the purple parasol, you know.”

“Oh, I see,” she said dubiously. “He gave it to me for a birthday present.”

“I knew it,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I mean I knew he’d recognize it,” he explained.

The flyer shot through Fossingford at that juncture, a long line of roaring shadows. There was silence between them until the rumble was lost in the distance.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go out on the platform for awhile,” she said finally, resignation in her eyes. “Perhaps he’s out there, wondering why the train didn’t stop.”

“It’s cold out there. Just slip into my coat, Miss Dering.” He held the raincoat for her, and she mechanically slipped her arms into the sleeves. She shivered, but smiled sweetly up at him.

“Thank you, Mr. Rollins, you are very thoughtful and very kind to me.”

They walked out into the darkness. After a turn or two in silence she took the arm he proffered. He admired the bravery with which she was trying to convince him that she was not so bitterly disappointed. When she finally spoke her voice was soft and cool, just as a woman’s always is before the break.

“He was to have taken me to his uncle’s house, six miles up in the country. His aunt and a young lady from the South, with Mr. Dudley and me, are to go to Eagle Nest to-morrow for a month.”

“How very odd,” he said with well-assumed surprise. “I, too, am going to Eagle Nest for a month or so.”

She stopped stock-still, and he could feel that she was staring at him hardly.

“You are going there?” she half whispered.

“They say it is a quiet, restful place,” he said. “One reaches it by stage over-land, I believe.” She was strangely silent during the remainder of the walk. Somehow he felt amazingly sorry for her. “I hope I may see something of you while we are there,” he said at last.