Mary's previous conjecture had been right, then. Boyne must have
gone to the gardens to meet her, and since she had missed him, it
was clear that he had taken the shorter way by the south door,
instead of going round to the court. She crossed the hall to the
glass portal opening directly on the yew garden, but the parlor-
maid, after another moment of inner conflict, decided to bring
out recklessly, "Please, Madam, Mr. Boyne didn't go that way."

Mary turned back. "Where DID he go? And when?"

"He went out of the front door, up the drive, Madam." It was a
matter of principle with Trimmle never to answer more than one
question at a time.

"Up the drive? At this hour?" Mary went to the door herself,
and glanced across the court through the long tunnel of bare
limes. But its perspective was as empty as when she had scanned
it on entering the house.

"Did Mr. Boyne leave no message?" she asked.

Trimmle seemed to surrender herself to a last struggle with the
forces of chaos.

"No, Madam. He just went out with the gentleman."

"The gentleman? What gentleman?" Mary wheeled about, as if to
front this new factor.

"The gentleman who called, Madam," said Trimmle, resignedly.