Oliver Hilditch, 10 b, Hill
Street, regretting his inability to dine that night, and each
time he destroyed it. He carried the first message around
Richmond golf course with him, intending to dispatch his caddy
with it immediately on the conclusion of the round. The fresh
air, however, and the concentration required by the game, seemed
to dispel the nervous apprehensions with which he had anticipated
his visit, and over an aperitif in the club bar he tore the
telegram into small pieces and found himself even able to derive
a certain half-fearful pleasure from the thought of meeting again
the woman who, together with her terrible story, had never for
one moment been out of his thoughts. Andrew Wilmore, who had
observed his action, spoke of it as they settled down to lunch.
"So you are going to keep your engagement tonight, Francis?" he
observed.
The latter nodded.
"After all, why not?" he asked, a little defiantly. "It ought to
be interesting."
"Well, there's nothing of the sordid criminal, at any rate, about
Oliver Hilditch," Wilmore declared. "Neither, if one comes to
think of it, does his wife appear to be the prototype of
suffering virtue. I wonder if you are wise to go, Francis?"
"Why not?" the man who had asked himself that question a dozen
times already, demanded.
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