"You can't do anything else."

"I must wait for my brother. He's out somewhere in this storm, and if he comes back and finds me gone--"

"Oh, your brother," said Geoffrey, "I forgot all about him. He's at my house already. He sent me for you."

"Oh," said she, sighing with relief, and then added maliciously: "then my plight was not revealed to you in a vision?"

"The vision is with me now."

She had to perfection, the art of allowing her mind to drift away when she thought it advisable.

"And so you took poor Billy in?" she said.

Geoffrey coughed. "Well, in a sense," he answered.

She rose. "We'll go at once," she said. "Is it far?"

"Not very, but it is going to be hard work."

He felt more practical. His delight had slipped from him at the realisation of her relationship to McVay. For a moment he felt depressed, then as he saw her struggling to undo the knot that held the comforter about her, he forgot everything but the pleasure of doing her a service. And in the midst of this joy, the coverlet slid to the ground and revealed her clad from head to foot in his sister's sables.

There was a pause.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

"That is a nice warm coat you have on."

"Isn't it?" She rubbed her cheek against the high collar with a tenderness trying to any masculine onlooker. "It saved my life."

It was on the tip of Geoffrey's tongue to ask if he was not ent.i.tled to a similar claim on her consideration, but he suppressed it. Was it possible that she did not know that the garments she wore were stolen?

Could any sane woman really believe that sable coats fell naturally to the lot of night watchmen? Her manner was candour itself, but how should it not be? What more inevitable than that she should make an effort to deceive a casual stranger? She had the most evident motives for behaving exactly as she did. Just so, however, he had reasoned about McVay, and yet McVay had been sincere. There had been a girl in distress exactly as he had said. It was contrary to all reason, but it was true. Might not the girl be true too? Was it not possible, he asked himself, and answered that it was more than possible, it was the truth. He chose to believe in her, and turned his anger against McVay, who could drag her through such a mire. He felt the tragedy of a high-minded woman tricked out in stolen finery, and remembered with a pang that he himself was hurrying on the moment of disillusion.

"I wonder," she said, "if I could take some things with me. Is it impossible for me to carry a bag?"

"Yes, but not for me."

"It would be only this." She held up a small Russia leather affair legibly marked with Mrs. Inness' initials.

"I will take it," said Geoffrey. His faith was sorely tried.

She moved about collecting things and packing, and presently remarked:

"But if Billy is all right, why didn't he come for me himself?"

"Oh, because--" Geoffrey hesitated an instant, and her fears interpreted the pause.

"He's hurt. You are keeping it from me. You are deceiving me."

"I would scorn to deceive you," said Geoffrey with pa.s.sion, and looked at her to find some answer to the reverse question which he did not put into words.

She did not appear to understand. "Then why didn't he come?" she asked.

"He had been out in the storm already. I thought it was my turn."

"I think you must be stronger than Billy." She cast a reflective glance at his shoulders, and he was ashamed to find himself inordinately flattered.

"He is really safe at your house?"

"I hope so, I did my best," he returned grimly.

She looked at him gravely. "You have been very kind to a stranger," she said.

And at this point Geoffrey made the fatal mistake of his dealing with her. It did not occur to him that he was going to shield McVay, but he thought a more advantageous time could be found for telling her the truth, in case of course she did not know it already. He felt that he himself would be better able to deal a cold blow when she was warm and sheltered. No man, he said to himself, could be disagreeable to a girl who had no one to depend on but himself. So he said:

"He was not exactly a stranger to me. We were at school together."

"Oh, another of Billy's friends. I never knew such a person for discovering friends at the most opportune times. He never wants anything but what a friend turns up. Did you find him wandering about, or did he come and demand admittance?"

"Why, neither exactly. I was not in the house at the time. He felt he knew me well enough to walk in."

"He never told me he had a friend in the neighbourhood."

"We have not met since we were at school."

"He had not seen you since he was at school, and yet he felt he knew you well enough to walk in on you!"

"Yes, he just walked in, and then I would not let him go."

"Men are so queer!" she exclaimed with a little laugh that had a spice of admiration in it, under which Geoffrey writhed. He was sailing under such false colours as her brother's benefactor.

"We ought to be starting," he said.

She looked round the room. "I hate to leave all these nice things," she said. "Billy is so fond of them. There is some wine that some one gave him that he says is really priceless."

"Leave it," said Geoffrey shortly.

"One would think you were a teetotaller from that tone. I wonder if I could not take one bottle as a surprise to Billy. He would like to contribute something to your hospitality, I am sure. Besides, if I leave it, it may be stolen."

"Yes, it may be stolen." He looked down into her face.

"Then--"

"I ask you as a favour to leave it behind."

Nothing could have been more charming than her manner of yielding, sweet and quick like a caress. It made him feel how pitiful sordid it all was.

They started immediately, started with a certain gaiety. Geoffrey chose to remember only that they were together through a hard adventure, and that it was his part to smooth her way. The bond of difficulties to overcome united them. They felt the intimacy of a single absorbing interest. They had nothing to think of but accomplishing their task,--of that and of each other. As far as they could see were snow and black trunks of trees. They scarcely remembered that any one but themselves existed.