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It was a sensible enough remark. But I had given Mrs. Fyne up. I
asked him if his impression was that his wife meant to entrust him with a
letter for her brother?
No. He didn't think so. There were certain reasons which made Mrs. Fyne
unwilling to commit her arguments to paper. Fyne was to be primed with
them. But he had no doubt that if he persisted in his refusal she would
make up her mind to write.
"She does not wish me to go unless with a full conviction that she is
right," said Fyne solemnly.
"She's very exacting," I commented. And then I reflected that she was
used to it. "Would nothing less do for once?"
"You don't mean that I should give way--do you?" asked Fyne in a whisper
of alarmed suspicion.
As this was exactly what I meant, I let his fright sink into him. He
fidgeted. If the word may be used of so solemn a personage, he wriggled.
And when the horrid suspicion had descended into his very heels, so to
speak, he became very still. He sat gazing stonily into space bounded by
the yellow, burnt-up slopes of the rising ground a couple of miles away.


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