He turned a corner.
Not at the time, but afterwards, he wondered why this time he felt no surprise at meeting that elusive friend of his-- Mr. Harley Quin. The two men clasped hands. "So your down here," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Yes," said Mr. Quin. "I'm staying in the same house as you are."
"Staying there?"
"Yes. Does it surprise you?"
"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly. "Only--well, you never stay anywhere for long, do you?"
"Only as long as is necessary," said Mr. Quin gravely.
"I see," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
They walked on in silence for some minutes.
"This lane," began Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped.
"Belongs to me," said Mr. Quin.
"I thought it did," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Somehow, I thought it must. There's the other name for it, too, the local name. They call it the 'Lovers Lane.'" You know that?"
Mr. Quin nodded.
"But surely," he said gently, "there is a 'Lovers Lane' in every village?"
"I suppose so," said Mr. Satterthwaite, and he sighed a little.
He felt suddenly rather old and out of things, a little dried-up wizened old fogey of a man. Each side of him were the hedges, very green and alive,
"Where does this lane end, I wonder?" he asked suddenly.
"It ends--here," said Mr. Quin.
They came round the last bend. The lane ended in a piece of waste ground, and almost at their feet a great pit opened. In it were tin cans gleaming in the sun, and other cans that were too red with rust to gleam, old boots, fragments of newspapers, a hundred and one odds and ends that were no longer of account to anybody.
"A rubbish heap," exclaimed Mr. Satterthwaite, and breathed deeply and indignantly.
"Sometimes there are very wonderful things on a rubbish heap," said Mr. Quin.
"I know, I know," cried Mr. Satterthwaite, and quoted with just a trace of self-consciousness--"Bring me the two most beautiful things in the city, said God. You know how it goes, eh?"
Mr. Quin nodded.
Mr. Satterthwaite looked up at the ruins of a small cottage perched on the brink of the wall of the cliff.
"Hardly a pretty view for a house," he remarked.
"I fancy this wasn't a rubbish heap in those days," said Mr. Quin. "I believe the Denmans lived there when they were first married. They moved into the big house when the old people died. The cottage was pulled down when they began to quarry the rock here--'but nothing much was done, as you can see."
They turned and began retracing their steps.
"I suppose," said Mr. Satterthwaite, smiling, "that many couples come wandering down this lane on these warm summer evenings."
"Probably."
"Lovers," said Mr. Satterthwaite. He repeated the word thoughtfully and quite without the normal embarrassment of the Englishman. Mr. Quin had that effect upon him. "Lovers... You have done a lot for lovers, Mr. Quin."
The other bowed his head without replying.
"You have saved them from sorrow--from worse than sorrow, from death. You have been an advocate for the dead themselves."
"You are speaking of yourself--of what you have done-- not of me."
"It is the same thing," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "You know it is," he urged, as the other did not speak. "You have acted--through me. For some reason or other you do not act directly--yourself."
"Sometimes I do," said Mr. Quin.
His voice held a new note. In spite of himself Mr. Satterthwaite shivered a little. The afternoon, he thought, must be growing chilly. And yet the sun seemed as bright as ever.
At that moment a girl turned the corner ahead of them and came into sight. She was a very pretty girl, fair-haired and blue-eyed, wearing a pink cotton frock. Mr. Satterthwaite recognised her as Molly Stanwell, whom he had net down here before.
She waved a hand to welcome him.
"John and Anna have just gone back," she cried. "They thought you must have come, but they simply had to be at the rehearsal."
[...]
