He looked at his watch. It was a quarter to twelve; and he knew there was a Sunday train to Ramsgard at twelve-fifteen.

“I’ll have hours for walking back⁠ ⁠… hours and hours,” he said to himself. “I’ll come by the highroad. I’d like to find a way through the Gwent Lanes, if there be time.”

Then suddenly an idea came into his head that brought a rush of blood and a faint, pricking sensation to the flesh that covered his cheekbones. Why not run in to Christie’s for a second, and see if she’d go with him? Damn!⁠—but there might be somebody he knew on the platform or in the train. They’d probably⁠—just because it was such a heavenly day⁠—find Miss Gault at the cemetery!

No, it was too risky. “But I’ll run in a second, anyway,” he thought, “and see what she says.”

A few minutes later he found himself ringing the bell at the Malakite side-door.