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‘I ... I thought it possible.’

‘He’s got more pride,’ Lesley declared scornfully. ‘Look, Fran, I don’t know what happened between you, I don’t want to know, but obviously it was not a tender reunion.’

‘It was not,’ Frances said emphatically.

Lesley sighed and shrugged her shoulders. ‘You know your own business best. One thing more, since I seem to have been appointed go-between. What he told you about Silver Arrow and other matters is not to be broadcast, and he trusts you to hold your tongue. Officially Silver Arrow was sold, and Gray had important business in U.S.A. which kept him there.’

Through all her pain and bewilderment, Frances felt a faint gratification. He had told her the true story which he had not told to anyone else, and relied upon her to keep quiet about it. He could not believe her to be so utterly despicable after all. But he had not told her quite everything, not the part relating to Samantha, who was the ‘business' that had delayed his return.

‘I always thought there was more to the Silver Arrow saga,’ Lesley went on, ‘and I’m dying to know what happened, but of course I mustn't ask, if you’re sworn to secrecy.’

‘I am,' Frances said firmly, though she had made no promises. She would have liked to confide in Lesley, but without Gray’s permission she would not utter a word.

Lesley stood up. ‘I’ve brought your coat and bag. How on earth did you get back without money and in this east wind?'

‘I met your boy-friend, Douglas,' Frances explained. She was glad to pass to a lighter subject. ‘He gave me a lift.' She looked at her friend significantly. 'He’s a nice lad, Les.’

‘Not so bad.’ The keen green eyes softened. ‘We fight like cat and dog, but that keeps our association from becoming boring. Why he puts up with me, I can’t imagine.’

‘I think he loves you.’

Lesley laughed.

‘Very perceptive of you, Fran. He hasn't said so yet, he’s too canny to rush his fences, but if and when he does . . .’ Her voice trailed away, and her lips curled in a little secret smile.

Frances smiled too; she was certain of the outcome. Poor Lesley had had her ups and downs, but she had got over her infatuation for Gray. Lesley looked at her hands.

‘I must wash before supper, which I suppose the estimable Murdoch has prepared as usual. We shall miss him when he goes.’

‘Why, does he want to leave?’

‘Gray will want him back,’ Lesley said over her shoulder as she moved towards the door. ‘And he’ll go running. Gray has a way of inspiring devotion in his underlings, or hadn't you noticed?'

She went to her own room, and Frances pushed the half-packed suitcase under the bed, with a feeling of chagrin. She had expected high drama, but Gray had retreated. His brief flare of passion had died away, leaving nothing but indifference. There was no need for her to run away, he had no intention of pursuing her. Contrarily she found this harder to bear than his threats. She had considered herself too important to him, and he was showing her that she meant nothing at all. His sojourn abroad had sundered them completely.

Over supper, Lesley told her what had happened at Crawfords after she had left. The place was in a furore and that was why she had been so late. The work force welcomed Gray with joy, he had always been popular with them, but the directors and semi-officials were glum. He had told them very definitely he was the man in command.

Information which rather contradicted his statement that he would be going away again, for why upset the applecart if he did not intend to stay? And if he did, where did Samantha fit into the picture?

‘He won't really sack Ian, will he?' Frances asked anxiously.

‘Did he say he would? If so Ian has forestalled him. He tendered his resignation immediately.'

‘Oh, no!' Frances exclaimed, distressed.

'Oh yes. He says nothing would induce him to work under Gray after the way he's treated you, but that isn't all. Of course I told him what you'd done for Crawfords, and he insists you must be bought out.'

‘Will that be possible?’ Frances concealed her dismay, with difficulty, wondering what madness had got into Gray that he would cripple the firm sooner than accept her bounty.

‘I don’t know. Sandy is livid, especially as Gray hinted he might consent to a take-over by one of Stu Lambert’s cronies. It seems poor Silver Arrow made quite an impression over there, in spite of the alleged defect. That Gray insists was not the fault of the workmen over here, he won’t have them blamed.’

Frances, who knew they were not to blame, said drily:

‘At least he’s being fair to them.‘

'Well, you see, his heart’s not involved.’

‘Heart!’ Frances cried bitterly. ‘Graham Crawford hasn’t got a heart. All he ever felt for me was lust . . . not a pretty word,’ as Lesley looked shocked, ‘but it’s the truth.’

‘Fran dear,’ Lesley’s green eyes surveyed her earnestly, ‘Gray isn’t himself. Those damned Lamberts have poisoned his mind. With patience and understanding he may come round, and only you can help him. You didn’t mean it when you said you didn’t want to see him again?’

'I did, and I’ll stick to it,’ Frances returned stormily. ‘What he said and did,' she touched her side, ‘was unpardonable. Why should I forever be his doormat? Accepting insults, desertion, probably infidelity with a smile?’

'Because you love him,’ said Lesley.

Frances sprang to her feet.

‘Not any more. Lesley, I’m through,’ she cried
passionately.

'And Robbie?’

‘Is my son, my child—Gray’s part in him was only incidental.’ She laughed angrily. ‘I asked him once if he wanted children, do you know what he replied?’

Lesley shook her head.

'He’d like a son to be another speed ace.'

‘But that was only natural,’ Lesley said placatingly.

‘Natural! To want to see his boy obsessed by one of those monsters, caring only or records and trophies, possibly being killed or maimed in pursuit of them.’ Frances moved away from the table set before the fire. ‘As if Silver Arrow hasn’t caused me enough suffering without repeating the process!’

‘Poor Silver Arrow,’ Lesley mourned. ‘She was a super boat.’ She glanced at Frances’ set face. ‘But it’s quite probable Robbie won’t want to follow in Daddy’s footsteps. He might prefer to collect butterflies.'

This suggestion was so incongruous Frances laughed with genuine merriment. .

‘Can you see Gray’s son engaged in anything so frivolous? But you’re right. Children don’t always inherit parents’ tastes, but Gray might try to persuade him.’ She came back to the table. ‘Has he asked to see him?’

Lesley shook her head. ‘He's gone to see his mother. You can be sure Granny will sing his praises, she adores him. Gray will want to verify them.’

‘I hope not,’ sighed Frances. ‘I think I shall go away eventually. Back to Kent, I’ve still got acquaintances there and I’ll have my dividends from Crawfords to live on until Robbie is old enough to go to school and I can take a job. That is if Gray doesn’t run the firm into liquidation and if he buys me out I'll have the cash.’

‘And leave me on my own?' Lesley asked reproachfully.

'My dear girl, before the year is out you'll be Mrs Douglas Maxwell!'

Lesley laughed and looked self-conscious. ‘What a thought!' But she did not deny its possibility. 'But you can’t deny Gray his son.'

‘Much he cares about him!' Frances exclaimed. ‘He might have surmised those . . . those nights at Rannoch Moor could have a result. But he never gave it a thought, he . . .'

She broke off. Unbidden, the inn had risen before her mental vision, the dormer windows and the stream; inside the low-beamed bedroom, Gray, her ardent lover, his bronzed body beside her on the bed, his head upon her breast. ‘Oh, Gray!’ she cried despairingly.

‘You
do
love him still,' Lesley declared. ‘You’ll always love him, and it's said love conquers all things.'

‘Sentimental twaddle,' Frances retorted. ‘Gray taught me to despise romantic fallacies.' She looked at Lesley wistfully. ‘He never loved me, you know.'

'I don't know,' Lesley said firmly, ‘I think you’re wrong there.'

‘Well, if he ever did, he doesn’t now,' Frances insisted.

'That’s just it. If it had been anyone but you who he suspected of carrying on with Ian—I gather he caught you in a compromising situation—he’d just have laughed and told you to get on with it, but you were special, Fran.'

‘So special he didn’t bother to communicate with me for, how long is it? A year and three months.’

‘Perhaps there were reasons . . .’

‘There’s only one that occurs to me, and that disproves your theories.’ Frances returned. She moved restlessly. 'It’s no good handing me soft soap—whatever was between us is finished. We’re miles apart. I shall divorce him.’

The words had a finality that hurt, though she had declared their association was ended.

'It’s what he wants,’ she added defensively. ‘And if I’m given custody of the child, he’ll have no claim on him.’

Then she would feel safe—not that Gray showed any inclination to claim the boy, but Mrs Crawford might prevail upon him to change his mind, because she would not want to relinquish her grandson. Frances knew she would find the proceedings distasteful, but when they were over she could make her home in England, far from Scotland, Gray and all their painful associations.

‘Divorce sounds so ... so final,’ Lesley protested. ‘I suppose you can ask for alimony, or at least an allowance for Robbie’s maintenance?’

'I don’t want anything from Gray,’ Frances declared passionately, ‘only to be left alone -in peace.’

Which was not quite true, but what she wanted he would never give her, never had; her only consolation was that she did not believe Gray had ever loved any woman.

As time passed, Murdoch became glummer and glummer. Frances knew it was because Gray had not contacted him. There was Caesar too, but Gray seemed to have forgotten about him. She had grown very fond of the great dog, he had been a comfort to her during the dark days of separation, offering her canine sympathy, as if he sensed her loneliness. He had attached himself to her, but he had not forgotten his master, as was proved by his excitement when he had detected his scent. When Craig Dhu was put up for sale, he had been a problem. Mrs Crawford did not like dogs, and the Fergusons' house was too small to accommodate him. The solution had been for Frances to have him when she had rented a place of her own, and Lesley had come to live with her, much to Margaret's displeasure. Frances did not think she could take him south with her, he was very large and expensive to keep, and he
was
Gray’s dog. The old Gray would never abandon him, but the man who had come back from America seemed devoid of natural feelings.

Ian came to see Frances during the following week, rather to her dismay, for the accusations Gray had thrown at her made her feel guilty in his presence, innocent though she was. Gray had spoilt their friendship, as he had spoilt so much else.

Robbie was having his afternoon nap and she was alone when Murdoch showed him into the sitting room.

‘I heard you hadn’t been well,’ he said, as if to excuse his visit. ‘I came to see how you were.’

‘I’m fine,' she assured him. ‘Who told you I wasn’t?’

‘Doug.’

She had forgotten Douglas and Ian were friends, and she hoped the young man had not enlarged upon her appearance when he had picked her up.

‘I was a little distraught,' she explained. ‘Doug took me home the day . . . Gray came back.’

‘And no wonder!’ Ian became vociferous in his denunciations of his former employer. He had once thought the world of Gray and was all the more bitter because he had been disillusioned.

Frances expressed concern over his resignation, but he told her not to worry about that. There were plenty of openings for good draughtsmen, and he had been getting in a rut at Crawfords.

‘But I never thought Gray could turn into such a louse,' he concluded.

‘He’s had a bad time.' Frances found herself wanting to defend her husband.

‘Has he?' He looks fit enough.’ Ian was scornful, but he did not know what Frances knew. She recalled his scarred hands and wondered if Ian had noticed them. Apparently not.

‘Lesley says you want to return to England,' Ian said.

‘Eventually. I feel a clean break will be best for Robbie and me.’

'It’s a shame!’ Ian burst out. ‘We were all so happy and contented until he came back. What a pity Silver Arrow didn’t kill him before he sold her.’

'Oh, hush, Ian, you mustn’t say that!’ Frances was shocked. Nor had she been happy and contented with Gray’s shadow ever at the back of her consciousness. Now the shadow had materialised into a grim reality, she hoped to be able to finally exorcise it. But to wish he had died, that she could never do.

‘What’s Gray doing?' she asked, suddenly hungry for news of him.

‘Selling Crawfords to the Americans, apparently,’ Ian told her dourly. ‘He’s living in a hotel—Sandy and he are at daggers drawn, so he could hardly go there. Mrs. Crawford is living with the McIntoshes, you know.’

‘Yes, I did know.' So Gray had no home in Scotland, with Craig Dhu sold along with his father’s house. That would not do anything to soften him. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears, all their efforts to put Crawfords on its feet had been wasted, and Gray was homeless in his own town.

‘Not weeping for the bastard, are you?’ Ian demanded.

Frances blinked. ‘No. only for the sorry way things have turned out.’

‘Poor Fran, you’ve had a rough deal. Remember, wherever you are and if you ever need help, you’ve one friend who will do anything for you if you call upon me.’

She thanked him, but she knew she would never turn to him. Once she had looked upon him as a sort of younger brother, but Gray had poisoned their friendship; his accusations would always be between them.

When he had gone, she watched him walk away through the sitting room window. He moved more
purposefully than he had before. The change would do him good, all the same he too had had a rough deal. Why, oh, why couldn’t she have fallen in love with him? As Gray had insisted she would? After a little initial opposition, they would have been happy, but now . . . She turned away from her contemplation of the empty street, with a deep sigh, as sounds from the bedroom indicated that Robbie had woken up. Whatever else had gone awry, she had her son.