Pursuit of a Parcel Read Free Page A

Whichever way there’d be most entertainment for Mr. Cornelius Roos?”
    â€œSomething like that, sir. But it’s guesswork—I don’t know anything. I haven’t seen him since April.”
    â€œWould you know if you did see him?”
    Antony watched him. “I might—I think I should.”
    Garrett bent down and knocked out his pipe against the side of the grate.
    â€œThen we’ll get down to talking about it,” he said.

II
    Delia Merridew had been deeply, dreamlessly asleep. That was on one side of the imperceptible line which separates moment from moment. On the other side of this line she was instantly and completely awake. The change was as sudden as the change from total darkness to flooding light. She did not know where she had been—her sleep kept its secrets—but she knew exactly where she was now. She was sitting up in bed in her own room at Fourways, her uncle Philip Merridew’s house in Surrey. A hand on either side of her pressed down upon the mattress, her chin lifted, her ears strained for the sound which had waked her. It might have been a bomb, or gunfire—somewhere—not very near. You did wake like that these nights without quite knowing what sound had waked you. Sometimes it came again, and sometimes it didn’t, in which case you just went to sleep.
    She shook back her hair—very thick, fair hair curling on her neck in a long bob—and in a moment the sound did come again, the patter of gravel glancing off the open casement window and rattling down upon the floor. She pushed back the clothes, jumped out of bed, and ran to look out.
    There was light from the waning moon, enough to show her the windowsquare, with the sky misty and luminous. When she leaned out over the sill, there was the lawn, all hazy, and the trees about it with that underwater look which half-veiled moonlight lends. There were bushes against the house—a group of lilacs, and a tall musk rose reaching up with a spray of glimmering bloom. Someone moved, and a voice said, “Delia!”
    Delia said, “Antony!” and then they both laughed.
    â€œRomantic, isn’t it?” said Antony.
    Delia laughed again.
    â€œNot a bit. I thought you were a bomb.”
    Their voices and their laughter were muted to the moonlight. The distance between his face upturned and hers looking down was no great matter. But it was too great. He said, “Delia—come down!”
    â€œDarling, it’s the middle of the night.”
    â€œLong past that—it’s half past three. Come down!”
    â€œWhy? I oughtn’t to.”
    â€œI know. I’ve got to see you. Be quick! And put on everything warm you’ve got—it’s biting cold.”
    A ghost of a laugh came floating down. “You’re telling me!”
    She drew back into the room with a shiver running over her from head to foot. There was ice in the air, and a wind from the north. But it was not only the cold that made her shiver. Something else had touched her. She slipped into a dress—shoes for her feet—but stockings wouldn’t matter—
    She came down the dark stairs, groping her way by the banisters, and put on the light in the hall. Philip Merridew was in London, and the maids would not wake. Her bedroom was over the study. She left this dark, felt her way to the window, put back the curtains, and pushed the casement wide.
    â€œAntony!”
    He was there, with his back to her, so close that she could have touched him. As he swung about, his shoulder brushed her hand.
    She said, “Come in!” and he, “Come out!” and they laughed again as they had laughed before, a soft hurrying laughter with an undercurrent of emotion and mutual awareness. Their hands groped and met. Hers tugged at him.
    â€œCome in at once! I’ll put on the fire. We’ll freeze out there.”
    â€œAll right—in for a penny, in for a pound! Let’s hope