A thought suddenly occurred to her. Yes, it was quite possible--probable even--that she might find Roger at the meet! The place appointed was a long way from Heston, but in the old days he had often sent on a fresh horse by train to a local station. They had had many a run together over the fields now coming into sight. Though certainly if he imagined there were the very smallest chance of finding her there, he would give this particular meet a wide berth.
Chloe laughed aloud. His resistance--and his weakness--were both so amusing. She thought of the skill--the peremptory smiling skill--with which she had beguiled him into the garden, on the day when the young couple paid their first call at Upcott. First, the low-spoken words at the back of the drawing-room, while Mrs. Barnes and the Duchess were skirmishing--
"I _must_ speak to you. Something that concerns another person--something urgent."
Whereupon, unwilling and rather stern compliance on the man's part--the handsome face darkened with most unnecessary frowns. And in the garden, the short colloquy between them--"Of course, I see--you haven't forgiven me! Never mind! I am doing this for someone else--it's a duty." Then abruptly--"You still have three of my letters."
Amusing again--his shock of surprise, his blundering denials! He always was the most unmethodical and unbusiness-like of mortals--poor Roger! She heard her own voice in reply. "Oh yes, you have. I don't make mistakes about such things. Do you remember the letter in which I told you about that affair of Theresa Weightman?"
A stare--an astonished admission. Precisely!
"Well, she's in great trouble. Her husband threatens absurdities. She has always confided in me--she trusts me, and I can't have that letter wandering about the world."
"No--you never sent it back. You have three of mine. And you know how careless you are--how you leave things about. I was always on tenterhooks. Look again, _please_! You must have some idea where they might be."
"When we sold the London house, all papers and documents were sent down here. We reserved a room--which was locked up."
"_A la bonne heure!_ Of course--there they are."
But all the same--great unwillingness to search. It was most unlikely he would be able to find anything--most unlikely there was anything to find. He was sure he had sent back everything. And then a look in the fine hazel eyes--like a horse putting back its ears.