"Oh, I couldn't!" she
sobbed.

"Don't cry," said Carshaw tenderly. "You must, you know, since it is the
only way. You cry because you do not trust me."

"Oh! I do. But what a thing it is that you propose! To break with all my
past on a sudden. I hardly even know you; last week I had not seen
you--"

"There, that is mistrust. I know you as well as if I had always known
you. In fact, I always did, in a sense. Please don't cry. Say that you
will come with me to-night. It will be the best piece of work that you
ever did for yourself, and you will always thank me for having persuaded
you."

"But not to-night! I must have time to reflect, at least."

"Then, when?"

"Perhaps to-morrow night. I don't know. I must think it over first in
all its bearings. To-morrow morning I will leave a letter in the office,
telling you--"

"Well, if you insist on the delay. But it is dangerous, Winifred--it is
horribly dangerous!"

"I can't help that. How could a girl run away in that fashion?"

"Well, then, to-morrow night at eleven, precisely. I shall be at the end
of this lane in my car, if your letter in the morning says 'Yes.' Is
that understood?"

"Yes."

"Let me warn you against bringing anything with you--any clothes or a
grip. Just steal out of the inn as you are. And I shall be just there at
the corner--at eleven."

"Yes."

"I may not have the chance of speaking to you again before--"

But Carshaw's pleading stopped short; from the near end of the lane a
tall form entered it--Rachel Craik. She had followed Winifred from the
hotel, suspecting that all was not well--had followed her, lost her, and
now had refound her. She walked sedately, with an inscrutable face,
toward the spot where the two were talking. The moment Carshaw saw this
woman of ill omen he understood that all was lost, unless he acted with
bewildering promptness, and quickly he whispered in Winifred's ear:

"It must be to-night or never! Decide now. 'Yes' or 'No.'"

"Yes," said Winifred, in a voice so low that he could hardly hear.

"At eleven to-night?"

"Yes," she murmured.

Rachel Craik was now up to them. She was in a vile temper, but contrived
to curb it.

"What is the meaning of this, Winifred? And who is this gentleman?" she
said.

Winifred, from the habit of a lifetime, stood in no small awe of that
austere woman. All the blood fled from the girl's face. She could only
say brokenly:

"I am coming, aunt," and went following with a d