'Not even –' She stopped. 'Oh, I suppose you're right, but I wish you wouldn't say frightening things like that, Mr. Fitzwilliam.'
'Does it frighten you?'
Slowly, she nodded her head. Then she turned abruptly. 'I must be going now. If — if you have nothing better to do — I mean if you could — do come and see us. Mother would — would like to see you because of your knowing friends of Daddy's so long ago.'
She walked slowly away down the road. Her head was bent a little, as though some weight of care or perplexity bowed it down.
Luke stood looking after her. A sudden wave of solicitude swept over him. He felt a longing to shield and protect this girl. From what? Asking himself the question, he shook his head with a momentary impatience at himself. It was true that Rose Humbleby had recently lost her father, but she had a mother, and she was engaged to be married, to a decidedly attractive young man who was fully adequate to anything in the protection line. Then why should he, Luke Fitzwilliam, be assailed by this protection complex?
'All the same,' he said to himself, as he strolled on toward the looming mass of Ashe Ridge, 'I like that girl. She's much too good for Thomas — a cool, superior devil like that.'
A memory of the doctor's last smile on the doorstep recurred to him. Decidedly smug, it had been! Complacent!
The sound of footsteps a little way ahead roused Luke from his slightly irritable meditations. He looked up to see young Mr. Ellsworthy coming down the path from the hillside. His eyes were on the ground and he was smiling to himself. His expression struck Luke disagreeably. Ellsworthy was not so much walking as prancing — like a man who keeps time to some devilish little jig running in his brain. His smile was a strange secret contortion of the lips; it had a gleeful slyness that was definitely unpleasant. Luke had stopped and Ellsworthy was nearly abreast of him when he at last looked up. His eyes, malicious and dancing, met the other man's for just a minute before recognition came. Then — or so it seemed to Luke — a complete change came over the man. Where, a minute before, there had been the suggestion of a dancing satyr, there was now a somewhat priggish young man. 'Oh, Mr. Fitzwilliam, good morning.'
'Good morning,' said Luke. 'Have you been admiring the beauties of Nature?'
Mr. Ellsworthy's long pale hands flew up in a reproving gesture. 'Oh, no, no. I abhor Nature. But I do enjoy life, Mr. Fitzwilliam.'
'So do I,' said Luke.
'Mens sana in corpore sano,' said Mr. Ellsworthy. His tone was delicately ironic.
'I'm sure that's so true of you.'
'There are worse things,' said Luke. 'My dear fellow! Sanity is the one unbelievable bore. One must be mad, slightly twisted — then one sees life from a new and entrancing angle.'
'The leper's squint,' suggested Luke.
'Oh, very good, very good; quite witty! But there's something in it, you know. An interesting angle of vision. But I mustn't detain you. You're having exercise. One must have exercise — the public-school spirit!'
'As you say,' said Luke, and, with a curt nod, walked on. He thought, 'I'm getting too darned imaginative. The fellow's just an ass, that's all.' But some indefinable uneasiness drove his feet on faster. That queer, sly, triumphant smile that Ellsworthy had had on his face — was that just imagination on his, Luke's, part? And his subsequent impression that it had been wiped off, as though by a sponge, the moment the other man caught sight of Luke coming toward him — what of that? And with quickening uneasiness he thought, 'Bridget? Is she all right? They came up here together and he came back alone.'
He hurried on. The sun had come out while he was talking to Rose Humbleby. Now it had gone in again. The sky was dull and menacing, and wind came in sudden erratic little puffs. It was as though he had stepped out of normal everyday life into that queer half world of enchantment, the consciousness of which had enveloped him ever since he came to Wychwood. He turned a corner and came out on the flat ledge of green grass that had been pointed out to him from below, and which went, he knew, by the name of Witches' Meadow. It was here, so tradition had it, that the witches had held revelry on Walpurgis Night and Halloween.
And then a quick wave of relief swept over him. Bridget was here. She sat with her back against a rock on the hillside. She was sitting bent over, her head in her hands. He walked quickly over to her. Lovely spring turf, strangely green and fresh. He said, 'Bridget?'
Slowly she raised her face from her hands. Her face troubled him. She looked as though she were returning from some far-off world, as though she had difficulty in adjusting herself to the world of now and here.
Luke said, rather inadequately, 'I say, you're — you're all right, aren't you?'
It was a minute or two before she answered — as though she still had not quite come back from that far-off world that had held her. Luke felt that his words had to travel a long way before they reached her.
Then she said, 'Of course I'm all right. Why shouldn't I be?' And now her voice was sharp and almost hostile.
Luke grinned. 'I'm hanged if I know. I got the wind-up about you suddenly.'
'Why?'
'Mainly, I think, because of the melodramatic atmosphere in which I'm living at present. It makes me see things out of all proportion. If I lose sight of you for an hour or two, I naturally assume that the next thing will be to find your gory corpse in a ditch. It would be, in a play or a book.'
'Heroines are never killed,' said Bridget.
'No, but — ' Luke stopped just in time.
'What were you going to say?'
'Nothing.'
Thank goodness, he had just stopped himself in time. One couldn't very well say to an attractive young woman, 'But you're not the heroine.'
Bridget went on, 'They are abducted, imprisoned, left to die of sewer gas or be drowned in cellars; they are always in danger, but they don't ever die.'
'Nor even fade away,' said Luke. He went on, 'So this is the Witches' Meadow?'
'Yes.'
He looked down at her. 'You only need a broomstick,' he said kindly.
'Thank you. Mr. Ellsworthy said much the same.'
'I met him just now,' said Luke.
'Did you talk to him at all?'
'Yes. I think he tried to annoy me.'
'Did he succeed?'
'His methods were rather childish.' He paused, and then went on abruptly, 'He's an odd sort of fellow. One minute you think he's just a mess, and then suddenly one wonders if there isn't a bit more to it than that.'
Bridget looked up at him. 'You've felt that too?'
'You agree, then?'
'Yes.' Luke waited. Bridget said, 'There's something — odd about him. I've been wondering, you know. I lay awake last night racking my brains. About the whole business. It seemed to me that if there was a — a killer about, I ought to know who it was. I mean, living down here, and all that. I thought and thought, and it came to this — if there is a killer, he must definitely be mad.'
Thinking of what Doctor Thomas had said, Luke asked: 'You don't think that a murderer can be as sane as you or I?'
'Not this kind of a murderer. As I see it, this murderer must be crazy. And that, you see, brought me straight to Ellsworthy. Of all the people down here, he's the only one who is definitely queer. He is queer, you can't get away from it!'
Luke said doubtfully, 'There are a good many of his sort — dilettantes, poseurs — usually quite harmless.'
'Yes. But I think there might be a little more than that. He's got such nasty hands.'
'You noticed that? Funny, I did too!'
'They're not just white, they're green.'
'They do give one that effect. All the same, you can't convict a man of being a murderer because of the color
