ed out....

About sunset the train began to mount the Gothard. Now she was in the
grip of a new horror--the memory of the last time that she had taken
this journey. She could see, as if it had been yesterday, Gerald
Wychcote's thin, frail figure looking so much frailer than usual in its
unaccustomed black--that awful, oblong black box guarded by Gaynor in
the luggage van--the box in which Cecil travelled like goods on a goods
train.... Now it was for Cecil's son that she was taking the dreadful
journey.... Again it seemed to her that she saw his angry, hard blue
eyes staring at her and heard him saying, "Where is my son, eh? What
have you done with my son between you--you and your latest lover?"

She grasped her head in both hands, wondering if the wild pain in it
meant brain fever....

It was drizzling next morning when they reached Boulogne, but the sea
was calm. She looked hungrily at the grey curtain of mist that shut out
England.

The crossing was short. And yet it seemed to her an eternity before the
steamer docked at Folkestone. Had Mr. Surtees received the telegram that
Amaldi had sent for her night before last? Would he be there to meet
her? Her heart beat to suffocation, as she leaned over the taffrail
staring down at the crowd below. Then it gave a sudden leap----
Yes--there he was. His prim, kindly old face was anxiously upturned. He
was looking for her just as she was looking for him. She waved to him
... called his name. A few moments more and she was beside him. She
tried to speak, but no sound came from her white lips. He hurried to
tell her what he knew that she was trying to ask.

"Your son is with Lady Wychcote at Dynehurst, Mrs. Chesney," he said. "I
saw her ladyship yesterday."

Sophy staggered. The old lawyer offered his arm. He looked almost as
pale as she did. He wanted to fetch her a glass of brandy, but she would
not have it.

"I shall be quite right ... quite right in a moment," she kept gasping.
She bent her head as she walked beside him, struggling with a desire to
burst into inane laughter. Hateful throes of hysteria convulsed her
throat. She overcame them by a violent effort of will that left her
feeling weaker than ever. She clung blindly to Mr. Surtees' arm,
stumbling now and then.

"I reserved a compartment in the London train," he told her. "Do you
wish your maid to go with us, or in the next compartment?"

"Not with us," murmured Sophy. "I wish to talk with you quite alone.