“I cannot explain it, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I have not shut an eye since the tragedy, thinking, thinking, thinking, night and day, what the true meaning of it can be. Arthur was the most single-minded, chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He would have cut his right hand off before he would sell a State secret confided to his keeping. It is absurd, impossible, preposterous to anyone who knew him.”

“But the facts, Miss Westbury?”

“Yes, yes I admit I cannot explain them.”

“Was he in any want of money?”

“No; his needs were very simple and his salary ample. He had saved a few hundreds, and we were to marry at the New Year.”

“No signs of any mental excitement? Come, Miss Westbury, be absolutely frank with us.”

The quick eye of my companion had noted some change in her manner. She coloured and hesitated.

“Yes,” she said at last, “I had a feeling that there was something on his mind.”

“For long?”

“Only for the last week or so. He was thoughtful and worried. Once I pressed him about it. He admitted that there was something, and that it was concerned with his official life. ‘It is too serious for me to speak about, even to you,’ said said he. I could get nothing more.”

Holmes looked grave.

“Go on, Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell against him, go on. We cannot say what it may lead to.”

“Indeed, I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice it seemed to me that he was on the point of telling me something. He spoke one evening of the importance of the secret, and I have some recollection that he said that no doubt foreign spies would pay a great deal to have it.”

My friend’s face grew graver still.

“Anything else?”

“He said that we were slack about such matters — that it would be easy for a traitor to get the plans.”

“Was it only recently that he made such remarks?”

“Yes, quite recently.”

“Now tell us of that last evening.”

“We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab was useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office. Suddenly he darted away into the fog.”

“Without a word?”

“He gave an exclamation; that was all. I waited but he never returned. Then I walked home. Next morning, after the office opened, they came to inquire. About twelve o’clock we heard the terrible news. Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you could only, only save his honour! It was so much to him.”

Holmes shook his head sadly.

“Come, Watson,” said he, “our ways lie elsewhere. Our next station must be the office from which the papers were taken.

“It was black enough before against this young man, but our inquiries make it blacker,” he remarked as the cab lumbered off. “His coming marriage gives a motive for the crime. He naturally wanted money. The idea was in his head, since he spoke about it. He nearly made the girl an accomplice in the treason by telling her his plans. It is all very bad.”

They plodded on down the overgrown path, he in front, in silence.

‘And we WILL live together and make a life together, won’t we?’ she pleaded.

‘Ay!’ he replied, striding on without looking round. ‘When t’ time comes! Just now you’re off to Venice or somewhere.’

She followed him dumbly, with sinking heart. Oh, now she was WAEto go!

At last he stopped.

‘I’ll just strike across here,’ he said, pointing to the right.

But she flung her arms round his neck, and clung to him.

‘But you’ll keep the tenderness for me, won’t you?’ she whispered. ‘I loved last night. But you’ll keep the tenderness for me, won’t you?’

He kissed her and held her close for a moment. Then he sighed, and kissed her again.

‘I must go an’ look if th’ car’s there.’

He strode over the low brambles and bracken, leaving a trail through the fern. For a minute or two he was gone. Then he came striding back.

‘Car’s not there yet,’ he said. ‘But there’s the baker’s cart on t’ road.’

He seemed anxious and troubled.

‘Hark!’

They heard a car softly hoot as it came nearer. It slowed up on the bridge.

She plunged with utter mournfulness in his track through the fern, and came to a huge holly hedge. He was just behind her.

‘Here! Go through there!’ he said, pointing to a gap. ‘I shan’t come out.

She looked at him in despair. But he kissed her and made her go. She crept in sheer misery through the holly and through the wooden fence, stumbled down the little ditch and up into the lane, where Hilda was just getting out of the car in vexation.

‘Why you’re there!’ said Hilda. ‘Where’s HE?’

‘He’s not coming.’

Connie’s face was running with tears as she got into the car with her little bag. Hilda snatched up the motoring helmet with the disfiguring goggles.

‘Put it on!’ she said. And Connie pulled on the disguise, then the long motoring coat, and she sat down, a goggling inhuman, unrecognizable creature. Hilda started the car with a businesslike motion. They heaved out of the lane, and were away down the road. Connie had looked round, but there was no sight of him. Away! Away! She sat in bitter tears. The parting had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly. It was like death.

‘Thank goodness you’ll be away from him for some time!’ said Hilda, turning to avoid Crosshill village.

‘You see, Hilda,’ said Connie after lunch, when they were nearing London, ‘you have never known either real tenderness or real sensuality: and if you do know them, with the same person, it makes a great difference.’

‘For mercy’s sake don’t brag about your experiences!’ said Hilda. ‘I’ve never met the man yet who was capable of intimacy with a woman, giving himself up to her. That was what I wanted. I’m not keen on their self–satisfied tenderness, and their sensuality. I’m not content to be any man’s little petsy–wetsy, nor his CHAIR · PLAISIR either. I wanted a complete intimacy, and I didn’t get it. That’s enough for me.