He probably walked from the station.
The evening would be well advanced.

I could almost see a dark indistinct figure opening the wicket gate of the garden.

Where was she?
Did she see him enter?
Was she somewhere near by and did she hear without the slightest premonition his chance and fateful footsteps on the flagged path leading to the cottage door?
In the shadow of the night made more cruelly sombre for her by the very shadow of death he must have appeared too strange, too remote, too unknown to impress himself on her thought as a living force--such a force as a man can bring to bear on a woman's destiny.
She glanced towards the hotel door again; I followed suit and then our eyes met once more, this time intentionally.

A tentative, uncertain intimacy was springing up between us two.

She said simply: "You are waiting for Mr.Fyne to come out; are you ?" I admitted to her that I was waiting to see Mr.Fyne come out.