Dusk was thickening over the marsh, and Christina, taking Honey down the rough drive at as fast a pace as she dared, congratulated herself that there could be not the slightest doubt on the way Ross would come. He would have set Richard on the road to Rye and would come back the shortest way. No anxiety there; and no use worrying about anything else. She had done, was doing, what she could. Nothing else for it but to ride steadily on, while raindrops seeped through her drenched cloak. But surely the weather was on their side. Might not such a night discourage the less bellicose of the smugglers? She should have asked M. Tissot how many the gang numbered. No use fretting about that now. Ride on … ride hard. If possible, she wanted to meet Ross close to where a side track ran down to the beach—that would be her quickest way to Trevis’s headquarters.
How quickly it was getting dark. Surely she must meet Ross soon. If not, it would mean he had decided to ride on to Rye with Richard. What then? Cross that bridge when you come to it. She needed all her concentration to keep Honey going steadily along the rough, half-visible road.
Ah—she lifted her head. Yes—at last, the sound of a horse coming rapidly toward her. A single horse—anyway, the smugglers would hardly be riding. They would come secretly, quietly, by ones and twos across the marsh. Thank God this was Ross, reining in Arab at sight of her.
“Chris! What in the world?”
“The smugglers! They’re going to attack the Grange.” She told her story as concisely as possible, helped along by his quick, pertinent questions.
“I’ve seen nothing,” he answered her final question. “But then, I wouldn’t have. They won’t come this way. You should be safe enough, riding along the beach.” He sounded as if trying to convince himself. “But I’d best see you down there.”
“Nonsense. There’s no time. And, besides, it’s you they’re after. They might well let me by.”
“That’s true. They love you, don’t they?”
“Well—the women, some of them, I think, are grateful to me. Ross! We’ve no time to be talking here.”
“You’re right. Good luck, Chris.”
“And to you.” She had already turned Honey away from him and threw the words back over her shoulder. Don’t think that they might never meet again. Very likely it would all prove a false alarm. But—here was the turnoff for the beach—Ross had never even suggested such a possibility, and he, surely, should know to what lengths the smugglers were capable of going. Stories she herself had heard of the famous—or infamous—Hawkhurst gang would keep coming into her head. There had been cases enough of horrible vengeance exacted for betrayal—or simply of the murder of riding officers who had been too hot on their trail.
Maddening to have to go so slowly, but this was a mere track, and, worse still, one she had hardly ever used. She dared not risk a fall, the chance of laming Honey. Slow and steady, she told herself, steady does it. It had stopped raining. Good? More likely bad, though undoubtedly a relief to have only wind in her face. Where would M. Tissot be by now? Doubtless snug by the fire in some hiding place or other. She should be grateful to him, but felt only anger, a cold determination that sometime, somehow, he must be caught and made to pay for his treachery.
Thank God, here was the steep slope of the sea wall. She dismounted, to lead Honey carefully up it, and then slowly, step by careful step, down the sliding shingle. And here, by mere good luck, was a groin from which to remount. She was up in a bound and guiding Honey down to the waterline. The tide had fallen fast since she had met M. Tissot; now it was well below the bottom of the breakwaters. Safe enough to let Honey out at last, and exhilarating to feel the wind of her own movement. Ahead—a long way ahead—she could see the lights of the little camp by the first gun emplacement—her destination. Suppose Trevis was not there. Well, there would be someone in authority.
How long had it been since she had left the house? And how successful would her mother have been in organizing its defense? But at least, Ross should be there by now. Aunt Tretteign, of course, would be in hysterics—and Sophie? An odd flash of memory took her back to a day long ago in America when there had been rumors of an Indian attack. Sophie had been little more than a baby then—a terrified baby who did not understand—and it had been Christina’s task to look after her and, at all costs, to keep her quiet. She should be at the Grange now, doing the same thing. Would it always be her task to look after Sophie, at whatever cost to herself?
The lights were very near now. She turned Honey’s head inland and, once more, was forced to dismount and lead her carefully over the treacherous shingle.
“Who goes there?” Although she had expected it, the welcome challenge made her jump.
“Friend.” She found Trevis himself in the disused farmhouse that served as headquarters for the gun crews. He would have liked to waste time exclaiming over her drenched condition, but she would not let him. “No time for that.” She held on to her drenched cloak. “Besides, I mean to go back with you.”
“Back?”
Telling her story yet again, she began to feel herself in some recurring nightmare, the kind where movement becomes impossible, and feet cannot touch the ground. And yet, he, too, was quick to grasp the situation, and equally quick to act on it. As he listened, he was scribbling orders, sending out messengers for reinforcements, throwing questions at her as he did so. Of course, it had not occurred to her before, in her private anxiety, but for him this was a golden opportunity to make an end, once and for all, of the smugglers. Preoccupied with this chance, he did not, to her relief, think to ask why they should attack the Grange.
Suddenly, absurdly, deplorably, she felt sorry for them, moving as they were, all unawares, into a trap. She tried to shake off the feeling, but could not. After all, they were not just smugglers, they were Jem’s uncle, Betty’s cousin, lord knew who else. If only it would all prove a nightmare.
Trevis had finished his arrangements and was putting on his heavy military greatcoat. “You’ll wait here, of course.”
“No.” She had been ready for this. “They may need me. Please let me come too. I’ll be no trouble, I promise you.” And then, when he still looked doubtful, “Besides, if I understand your plan aright, you intend to catch the smugglers unawares. What more natural than that you should escort me back and stay for dinner? With your men posted outside—it can’t fail.”
“I suppose it should be safe enough.” Doubtfully.
“Of course it will. I can’t believe they’ll attack so early—well, it stands to reason they’ll wait till the house is quiet. And, besides, what would I do here?”
“It’s true.” This argument struck home. “It’s very far from being a fit place for a young lady.”
She took this, with a sigh of relief, as capitulation, and followed him outside to where a little party of soldiers was drawn up, mounted and ready. The smallest possible delay while Honey was fetched for her, and they were riding back the way she had come, along the beach. “Much less chance of encountering the gang this way,” said Trevis.
“Yes.” Once again, the cold question nibbled in her mind: how many of her friends—or her friends’ friends—would be found among the smugglers?
It was just perceptibly lighter now than it had been when she came. From time to time a rag of moon showed among hurrying clouds. “There’ll be light enough to recognize them,” said Trevis, with a cheerful ferocity that chilled her blood. And then, “Best ride in silence now.”
They stopped, at last, down on the beach, where the path turned off for the Grange. Trevis made his final plans with a quick certainty that Christina found formidable. The rest of the troop were to dismount here, leaving their horses in charge of one of their number, and spread out to surround the house. Another contingent should arrive, soon, from the far side. “Don’t worry, we’ll be ready for them when they come,” said Trevis, as he and Christina started on the short ride up to the house.
No noise but the wind and the sea. Christina breathed a sigh of relief as they came up over the sea wall; there lay the house, quiet as usual, lights showing in a few windows.
“Good,” said Trevis.
“Yes.” She had been too fully occupied to realize just how anxious she was. Had she really expected to find the house a smouldering ruin?
Just the same, it was an eerie feeling to come in among the outbuildings, as she led the way around to the front of the house, and wonder whether dark figures were crouching there, watching her every move. Be natural—at all costs be natural. “I’m grateful to you for escorting me home.” She made her voice loud on purpose. “I rode farther than I meant.”
“You certainly must have.” Trevis had jumped down and held her horse for her to dismount.
“If you’ll hold them a moment”—she moved up the front steps— “I’ll send the boy.” The door would be locked, of course, an elementary precaution. She beat a resounding tattoo on the knocker.
“Who’s there?” Ross’s voice. Doubtless he had been following their approach through the darkness.
“It’s I, Chris. And Lieutenant Trevis. Could you send Jem to stable the horses?”
The door swung open. “I’m glad to see you.” Ross raised his voice, to shout the order back to the servants’ quarters. “All’s well?”
“Quiet as the grave.” And then, on a more prosaic note, “We’ve been waiting dinner for you.”
“Good. I’m famished.”
It was not Jem, she noticed, who came running to take the horses, but a new boy they had recently taken on. Now Trevis came up the steps to join them, and to ask, “No trouble yet?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. The house should be surrounded by now. There’ll be a hot welcome for them when they get here. This should be the end of the whole rascally pack of them.”
“Yes.” An odd note in Ross’s voice. Well—no wonder. If she had qualms about the smugglers’ fate, how much more must he? “You’re drenched, Chris.” He turned to her. “Hurry and change. Dinner can wait.”
She smiled at him. “It must be spoiled already. Very well, then, if you’ll excuse me.”
When she entered the drawing room ten minutes later, she was at once aware of tension crackling in the air. Her mother, of course, greeted her imperturably as always. “There you are, chérie. We were getting almost anxious about you. Lieutenant Trevis tells me you rode farther than you meant”
“Yes. I must apologize for delaying dinner.” How right her mother was to behave as if nothing was amiss.
But Mrs. Tretteign’s hands were working in her lap, and there were spots of disastrous red high up on her cheekbones. “Food!” Petulantly. “I couldn’t eat a thing. Not now …”
“You must,” said her sister-in-law. “Lieutenant Trevis, if you will come with me?” She led the way across the big hall to the dining room, and Christina, watching her Aunt Tretteign flutter anxiously after her, took time to breathe a question to Ross. “Grandfather?”
“Knows nothing.”
“Good.” But here was Sophie, deathly white, emerging from the shadowed corner by the piano, where she had been pretending to look over some music.
“Tina, you’re all right?” she asked.
“Of course I am, goose. I’m sorry if I’ve kept you all waiting for your dinner.”
“Oh … don’t. Tina, I’m frightened …”
“Nonsense.” This was Ross, robustly, as he took an arm of each of them. “You’re hungry, that’s all.”
It was a strange enough travesty of a dinner party. Mrs. Tretteign was in one of her crises of the nerves, and Christina, watching her sniff into her handkerchief, sigh gustily and pick at her food, could only congratulate herself that these were enough of a commonplace to cause no comment. But Sophie was another matter. She, too, was silent. Her pale face and reddened eyes suggested a recent storm of tears; there were red spots on her cheekbones and even her dark hair seemed to have lost something of its usual luster. Drained of its animation, her face was pitiful and almost plain, and Lieutenant Trevis, who had not met her before, treated her merely with the careless courtesy due to the insignificant child she looked.
Ross, too, was withdrawn, and Christina, helping her mother to carry on a routine conversation with Lieutenant Trevis, wondered what pangs he must be suffering on the smugglers’ account. After all, he could not help but feel the whole thing his fault.
They were all strained, listening, in the many pauses in the conversation, for sounds from outside. Once, Mrs. Tretteign half rose to her feet. “Shots!” she said. “I hear firing.”
Trevis and Ross both rose and moved to the window to listen. “You’re imagining things, Mother,” said Ross coldly. “It’s only the wind on the marsh.”
“The wind, indeed! As if I hadn’t heard that nights enough to be able to tell it from gunfire. But I suppose I’m just an hysterical female, too.” A glance for Sophie suggested the point of this remark and Christina wondered more than ever what kind of scene she had missed.
Sophie sniffed loudly into a tiny lace-trimmed handkerchief. “We can’t all be heroines,” she said. “And as for me, I always understood ladies were not supposed to go riding in the dark alone. I’m sure, Mamma, if you’ve told me once—”
“I’ve told you a thousand times, Sophie,” interposed her mother, “not to speak about what you don’t understand.” And then, rising, “You will not be long over your wine, Ross?”
“Of course not. But Trevis and I intend to make a circuit of the house before we rejoin you ladies. It’s getting late.”
“Yes.” They had, indeed, dined very late, and Christina, her ears at a stretch like the others’, had been expecting the attack momentarily and wishing she had had a moment to find out what plans had been made for the defense of the house.
But now, at last, the four women were alone in the saloon. “I’ll ring when we wish for tea,” her mother had told Parkes. “Till then, we do not wish to be disturbed.”
“Poor old thing,” said Christina, when he had closed the door behind him. “I wish we could persuade him to go to bed. He looks like death.”
“Oh really, Tina,” burst out Sophie. “I’ve no patience with you. Here we are, about to be murdered in our beds—if not worse—and all you can think of is the butler’s health. Have you no finer feelings?”
“Not many, I’m afraid, love,” said Christina cheerfully. “And, really, it seems to me most unlikely that we are to be murdered in our beds—or worse, as you suggest. After all, there are I don’t know how many troopers out there guarding the house.”
“Gallantly fetched by you. Not at all the thing, I should have thought, to be riding about the marsh like that, but I seem to be in a minority.”
“Yes you are, aren’t you, pet” Her mother spoke with cheerful firmness. “It was foolish, you know, to break out at your Cousin Ross like that. I’ve yet to meet the man who can bear female tantrums. Oh well, come and sit down, and tell yourself that at least you’ve learned a useful lesson tonight.”
“Lesson! I’ve learned that Ross Tretteign has the manners of a backwoods lumberman. He slapped my face.” One little hand went up to the red spot on her cheek. “I’ll never forgive him.”
“And he’ll never forget how badly you behaved,” said her mother with undiminished cheerfulness. “You’ve lost a beau, pet, the quickest way you could do it. And as to the slap, I’d have done it myself if I’d been near enough. Two more of those hysterical screams of yours and the whole house would have been in an uproar and your grandfather would likely have had another stroke. You must learn, chérie, that there is a time and a place for all things. Hysterics are all very charming and ladylike over a mouse, or a dead bird, but in a real crisis a lady should behave like—”
“Like Christina, I suppose you mean to say.”
“Well, since you suggest it, yes, like Christina. And, another thing, my angel, while we’re on the subject, no lady ever did herself any good by criticizing another in front of the gentlemen. It won’t do, you know. It won’t do at all. It’s lucky for you your Cousin Richard was not here. He has very high standards of courtesy.”
“Mother, please.” Christina was alarmed at the fixed look in Sophie’s eyes. But it was too late. Sophie had jumped to her feet. “Cousin Ross! Cousin Richard!” she screamed. “A couple of country bumpkins! As if I was to care what they thought of anything. Oh, God, I wish I were dead—or in Paris.” The door slammed behind her.
“Tant pis” sighed her mother, “how stupid of me. I should have waited. I suppose we’re all a little on edge tonight.”
“She’ll have one of her crying fits,” said Christina. “I’d best go after her. She might bear me more easily than you, Mamma, just now.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I’m sorry, love, but she made me angry.”
Christina laughed. “I can see she did. But”—before her mother could speak—“don’t tell me about it. I’d much rather not know.”
The old house was strangely quiet, as if suspended, waiting.… She moved over to the ledge in the hall where bedroom candles stood ready and was surprised to find that none of them had been taken. Oh well—Sophie had doubtless been in such a passion that she had run upstairs in the dark.
But when she reached Sophie’s bedroom, she found it empty. Where could she have gone? A quick survey of the downstairs rooms showed no trace of her and she hurried back to the saloon. “Mamma, I can’t find Sophie.”
“Oh no!” A look of appalled comprehension crossed Mrs. Tretton’s face. “She can’t have—”
“I didn’t like to say anything,” put in Aunt Tretteign from her seat in the chimney corner, “but I thought I heard the front door slam, after the child ran out just now. But of course if I’d have mentioned it, I’d merely have been told it was my nerves, so I stayed quiet.”
“How could you—” began Mrs. Tretton, but Christina stopped her. “No time for that,” she said. “We must find Ross and Trevis and go after her. She’s done this before, Mother?”
“Yes, when she thought she was—well—misunderstood. But never under circumstances like these. I never thought … if harm comes to her I’ll never forgive myself.”
“I don’t suppose it will.” Christina managed a calm she was far from feeling. “She’ll probably give one of the troopers a terrible fright.”
“Heartless!” sniffed Aunt Tretteign. “Quite heartless. That poor child, goaded, teased into this madness, and all you talk about is fright. But of course you two would never understand what it is to be highly strung.”
“No,” said Christina, ringing a loud peal on the bell, “I believe I never shall.”
Ross and Trevis were still outside, none of the servants knew just where, so Christina began to organize a search party of the men, one group to go with her mother, the other with herself. “I’ll take the cloisters party, Mother, do you work your way round the front.” As she spoke, the front door swung open and Lieutenant Trevis ushered in Ross, who was carrying Sophie. It made a most romantic picture as she clung around his neck, her curls brushing his cheek. Then, he deposited her, unceremoniously, on a settle in the hall “Can you walk now, do you think?” His voice was coldly furious.
“I … I don’t know.” She bent to rub a slender ankle, just apparent below the hem of her dress. But he had turned away to speak to her mother.
“Lunacy, ma’am, and I hope you’ll give her the scold she deserves. A few years younger and I’d beat her myself. This is no time to be indulging in tantrums. She nearly got herself shot by the trooper on guard at the front. And can you blame him? It would have served her right if she’d been killed, instead of merely twisting her ankle.”
“And the shot may well have given warning to the smugglers.” Trevis, too, was furious.
“There’s no sign of them?” Christina did her best to deflect the men’s attention from Sophie, who sat there, a child’s tears streaming down her cheeks.
“None yet,” said Trevis. “But we should be getting back … if you really want to come?” This to Ross.
“Of course I do.”
“But, Cousin Ross.” Sophie put her foot to the ground and winced. “I can’t walk—how shall I get upstairs to bed?”
“Frank can carry you,” said Ross. “Come, Trevis.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Tretton, as the big door closed behind them, “I did warn you, love. How bad is it?” Christina had already bent to examine the ankle.
“It’s hard to tell,” said Christina fair-mindedly, seeing nothing. “I’ll fetch some cold compresses.”
“And sal volatile,” suggested her mother. “The child’s had a hard day. Don’t take on so, pet. There’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.”
“Will Ross ever forgive me? He was so angry!” Sophie was badly shaken—as much, Christina thought, looking back down the stairs, by Ross’s anger as by her injury. Returning with cold bandages and the sal volatile, she found her sister cheering up under the sympathy of her mother and aunt. Mrs. Tretteign was in her element, and had fetched a salve of her own—sovereign, she maintained, against bruising. “We wouldn’t want to have one ankle larger than the other.”
“D’you think I might?” Now Sophie sounded really frightened.
“Of course not,” Christina intervened. “I can’t see much wrong with it, to tell you the truth. Don’t you think, with an effort, you could walk on my arm as far as the fire in the saloon? You’d be so much more comfortable there.”
“Anything rather than have Frank carry me.” Sophie let Christina help her to her feet and limped, with a good many groans, to the sofa nearest the fire. Once established there, with cushions and sal volatile, she put an anxious hand to her tousled curls, and admitted herself to be feeling better. “But what a brute Ross is,” she broke out. “Oh—excuse me, Aunt Tretteign, I quite forgot. But can you imagine anything so unkind as to give me such a scold, at such a time?”
“Quite heartless,” sighed his mother. “But, I tell you, my dear, Ross never had the slightest feeling for a female’s susceptibilities. Many’s the time I’ve been prostrate with one of my migraines, or suffering with my nerves, and got no more sympathy from him than you have tonight. Now, Richard’s quite another matter, he understands about these things. Why—he even suffers with the migraine himself.”
“Very creditable, I’m sure,” said Christina dryly.
But her aunt was not listening, she had turned toward the window. “What was that? I’m sure I heard something!”
“Nonsense.” Christina was very near losing her temper. “How should we hear anything at this side of the house?” And then, with an effort at a lighter tone. “Really, Sophie, love, we should be grateful to you—since it’s no worse. Do you know, worrying about you, I had quite forgotten the smugglers. If they really meant to get here at first dark, they’re very late. Do you think perhaps they have changed their minds?”
“I only know I’m dying for sleep,” said her mother. “Shall we leave them to the tender mercies of the military and retire to bed, do you think?”
“What?” This was practically a squawk from Mrs. Tretteign. “And be ravished in our beds!”
“You have less confidence in Lieutenant Trevis than I, Aunt,” said Christina. “To tell you the truth, I merely feel sorry for those poor smugglers, walking into such a trap.”
“Sorry! Christina, how can you speak so? It will serve you right if they fool the soldiers in some way—you know how stupid they are—and reach the house. How do you know there is not a secret passage leading into this very room? At any moment a whole gang of them may burst in here, and then what use will Lieutenant Trevis and his soldiers be?” She looked nervously around, having succeeded in frightening herself quite as much as she had Sophie, who burst into a fresh flood of tears.
“I told you we should have gone at once,” said Sophie, through her sobs. “If you’d only listened to me, we’d have been safe in Rye by now.”
“And you know what Ross said to that,” said her mother.
“Ross is a brute. I really believe he values his moldy old Grange more than the lives of the lot of us.”
Christina was beginning to understand what had gone on while she was away. “I hope you didn’t say that, love.”
“Of course I did. Why not?”
“Well, mainly because I think it’s true, and you know how the truth hurts.”
“Well,” said Sophie unanswerably, “I wanted to hurt Ross.”
“I think”—this was Mrs. Tretton, who had been sitting placidly netting all this time—“that we should have some entertainment. Christina, love, would you rather read aloud or sing for us?”
“I’ll gladly sing,” said Christina, “if you can bear to listen.” And she moved over to the piano, ignoring a mutter of “fiddling while Rome burns” from her aunt.
When Trevis and Ross came back, around eleven o’clock, the first thing they heard was her voice, cool and deep, in “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.”
“Admirable girl,” said Ross. “I knew she’d keep the others from panicking.”
“I imagine she’s had her work cut out, just the same.” Trevis followed him into the saloon.
“Well?” Christina swept her hands up the piano in a soft, conclusive chord. “Are we to be burned in our beds?” She spoke quietly, and, following her eyes, they saw Sophie fast asleep and Mrs. Tretton nodding in her chair. “There’s nothing like music for a sedative.” Still speaking softly, Christina moved forward to greet them.
“Not a sign of them.” Trevis sounded simply disappointed. “It’s getting very late, too. Can they have been warned?”
“Well”—Ross had hardly spared a glance for Sophie, all flushed cheeks and tangling curls on the sofa—“it’s possible, I suppose. With the best will in the world, one can’t move even a small body of troops about in the dark without some noise.”
“You think they heard us?”
“Most likely. After all, it’s life and death to them to know every sound of the marsh.” And then, to Christina, “I really think you ladies could safely call it a day now, and go to bed.”
“Do you?” Her eyes met his speculatively. “I’m sure you know best.” She was indeed. There had been no sign of the boy, Jem, all evening. Doubtless Ross had sent him off, as soon as he got back, to warn the gang that they had been betrayed. Well, in a way she could scarcely blame him, but it seemed hard on Lieutenant Trevis. And on the rest of them. So it had been merely a comedy they had played out all evening. Well, poor Sophie. She gave Ross a chilly look.
“A storm in a teacup, I suppose. And I thought I was being such a heroine. What do you say, Mamma, shall we cut short the melodrama and go to bed?”
“You really think it safe?” Mrs. Tretton addressed the two men equally.
“I believe you should, ma’am.” It was Trevis who answered. “We shall be on guard all night, of course, but I really hardly hope, any longer, that the attack will be made.”
“Hope!” she said. “Thank you, Lieutenant! I’m not sure I altogether like playing bait for your trap.”
“Trap?” Mrs. Tretteign snorted awake. “What’s that? What’s happened? Have they come?”
“No, Aunt,” said Christina. “Lieutenant Trevis was just saying he had given up hope of them. We are going to bed as if nothing had happened, and in the morning, no doubt, it will all seem like a bad dream.” She moved over to where Sophie still lay curled up, fast asleep. “Come, pet, time for bed, and here’s Cousin Ross to carry you up.” It’s the least you can do, her eyes challenged him across the sofa.
“Oh! I had such a dream!” Sophie woke all at once, like a child, bright-eyed and smiling. And then, looking around, “No—it wasn’t a dream? Tina?”
“It’s all right, pet. It’s all over. Either a false alarm, or they heard the soldiers and thought better of it. How’s your foot? Can you walk, do you think, or shall Cousin Ross carry you up?”
“I shall walk.” She had remembered it all now. “No need to trouble Cousin Ross.” She spoke as if he was miles away, and pulled herself upright, holding on to the end of the sofa.
“Nonsense.” Like Christina, Ross had seen her wince as she put her weight on the bad foot. He picked her up as if she weighed nothing and moved toward the door. “It’s been a bad evening for us all. Forgive me, infant, if I was cross?”
“I suppose so. But you were, you know, dreadfully!” She smiled up at him.
“Well, of course I was. Chris, you’re coming?”
“Yes.” It was odd how the atmosphere had changed. It was all over. Good nights were quickly, almost shamefacedly said. Ross was going to watch all night with Trevis. For nothing, Christina thought sardonically. And yet, but for M. Tissot, how different it might have been. The Dark House might be in flames by now. So why could she not feel grateful to him? Impossible, somehow, to believe in his protestations of gratitude, his concern for her safety. What kind of double game, she wondered, was he playing now?