"No change," she whispered; and Fyne could only make a hopeless sign of ignorance as to what all this meant and how it would end.
He feared future complications--naturally; a man of limited means, in a public position, his time not his own.

Yes.

He owned to me in the parlour of my farmhouse that he had been very much concerned then at the possible consequences.

But as he was making this artless confession I said to myself that, whatever consequences and complications he might have imagined, the complication from which he was suffering now could never, never have presented itself to his mind.

Slow but sure (for I conceive that the Book of Destiny has been written up from the beginning to the last page) it had been coming for something like six years--and now it had come.