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  CHAPTER XVI

  A NIGHT ADVENTURE

  Henrietta sat and listened to the various sounds which told of ahousehold on its way to bed; and she held her courage with bothhands. Slip-shod feet moved along the passages, sleepy voices badegood-night, distant doors closed sharply. And still, when she thoughtall had retired, the clatter of pot or pan in the far-off officesproclaimed a belated worker. And she had to wait and listen and countthe pulsations of her heart.

  The two wax candles, snuff them as she might, cast but a dull andmelancholy light. The clock ticked in the silence of the room withappalling clearness. Her own movements, when she crept to the door tolisten, scared her by their stealthiness. It seemed to her that theleast of the sounds she made must proclaim her vigil. One moment shetrembled lest the late burning of her light arouse suspicion; the nextlest the cloak which she had brought in and cast across a chair shouldhave put some one on the alert. Or she tormented herself with thefancy that the snow with which the evening sky had been heavy wouldfall before she started and betray her footsteps.

  Of one thing she tried not to think. She would not dwell on what mighthappen at the meeting-place. She felt that if she let her thoughts runon that, she would turn coward, she would not go. And one thing at atime, she told herself. There lay her cloak, the window was not threepaces from her, the chair which she meant to use stood by the door. Inthree minutes she could be outside, in half an hour she might be back.But in the meantime, the room was lonesome and creepy, the creak of aboard made her start, the fall of the wood-ash stopped her breath.Like many engaged in secret deeds she made her own mystery andtrembled at it.

  At length all seemed abed.

  She extinguished one of the candles and took up her cloak. As sheput it on before the pale mirror she saw that her white face andhigh-piled hair showed by the light of the remaining candle like theface of a ghost; and she shivered. But that was the last tribute toweakness. Her nature, bold to recklessness, asserted itself now themoment for action was come. She set the candle on the floor and shadedit so that its light might not be seen. Then, taking the chair in herhands she stepped into the dark passage, and closed the door behindher. The close, heavy smell of the house assailed her as she listened;but all was still, and she raised the sash of the window. She passedthe chair through the aperture and leaning far out that it might notstrike the wall lowered it gently. She felt it touch the ground andsettle on its legs. Then she climbed over the sill and let herselfdown until her feet rested on the chair. She made certain that shecould draw herself in again, then she sprang lightly to the ground.

  The chair cracked as her weight left it, and for a moment she crouchedmotionless against the wall. But she had little to fear. Snow had notyet fallen, but it was in the air and the night was as dark as pitch.She could not see a yard and when she moved, she had not gone twosteps from the wall before it vanished, and all that remained to herwas some notion of its position. Above, below, around was a darknessthat could be felt. Still, she found the garden-gate with a littledifficulty, and she passed into the road, and turned to the left.She knew that if she walked in that direction she must come to theplace--a furlong away--where the Troutbeck lane ran up from thelake-side.

  But the blackness was such that lake and hill were all one, and shehad to go warily, now feeling for the bank on her left, now for theditch on her right. Not a star showed, and only in one place a patchof lighter sky broke the darkness and enabled her to discern theshapes of the trees as she passed under them. It was a night when anydeed might be done, any mischief executed beside that lonely water;and no eye see it. But she tried not to think of this. She tried notto think of the tracts of lonely hill that stretched their long armson her left, or of the deep, black water that lurked on her right. Andshe had compassed more than a hundred yards when a faint sound, as offollowing feet, caught her ear.

  She halted, and shook the hood back from her ears. She listened. Shefancied that she heard the pattering cease, and she peered into thedarkness, striving to embody the thing that followed. But she couldsee nothing, she could now hear nothing. She had her handkerchief inher hand, and as she stood, peering and listening, she wiped thewind-borne moisture from her face.

  Still she heard nothing, and she turned and set off again. But herthoughts were with her follower, and she had not taken three stepsbefore she ran against the bank, and hardly saved herself from a fall.

  She felt that with a little more she would lose her head, and, astrayin the boundless night, not know which direction to take. She mustpull herself together. She must go on. And she went on. But twice shehad the sickening assurance that something was moving at her heels.Nor, but for the thought which by-and-by occurred to her, that herfollower might be the person she came to meet, could she have kept toher purpose.

  She came at length, trembling and clutching her hood about her, tothe foot of the lane. She knew the place by the colder, moister airthat swept her face, as well as by the lapping of the water on thestrand. For the road ran very near the lake at this point. It was amooring-place for two or three boats, belonging for the most part toTroutbeck; and she could hear a loose oar in one of the unseen craftroll over with a hollow sound. But no one moved in the darkness, orspoke, or came to her; and with parted lips, striving to controlherself, she halted, leaning with one hand against the angle of thebank. Then--she could not be mistaken--she heard her follower halt.

  Thirty seconds--it seemed an age--she was silent, and forced herselfto listen, straining her ears. Then she could control herself nolonger.

  "Is it you?" she whispered, her voice strained and uncertain, "I amhere."

  No one answered. And when she had waited awhile glaring into the nightwhere she had last heard the footsteps she shuddered violently. For aspace she could not speak, she leant against the bank.

  Then, "Is it you?" she whispered desperately, turning her face thisway and that. "Speak if it is! Speak! For God's sake, speak to me!"

  No one answered, but out of the gloom came the low creep of the windamong the reeds, and the melancholy lapping of the water on thestones. Once more the oar in the boat rolled over with a hollowcoffin-like echo. And from a distance another sound, the flap and beatof a sail as the rudder was put over, came off the surface of thelake. But she did not heed this. It was with the darkness about her,it was with the skulking thing a pace or two from her, it was with thearms stretched out to clutch her, it was with the fear that wasbeginning to stifle her as the thick night stifled her, that she wasconcerned.

  Once more, striving fiercely to combat her fear, to steady her voice,she spoke.

  "If you do not answer," she cried unsteadily, "I shall go back! Youhear? I shall go back!"

  Still no answer. And on that, because a frightened woman is capable ofanything, and especially of the thing which is the least to beexpected, she flung herself forward with her hands outstretched andtried to grapple with the thing that terrified her. She caughtnothing: all that she felt was a warm breath on her cheek. Sherecoiled then as quickly as she had advanced. Unfortunately her skirtbrushed something as she fell back and the contact, slight as it was,drew a low shriek from her. She leant panting against the bank,crouching like a thing at bay. The beating of her heart seemed tochoke her, the gloom to stretch out arms about her. The touch of amoth on her cheek would have drawn a shriek. And on the lake--but nearthe shore now, a bowshot from where she crouched, the sail of theunseen boat flapped against the mast and began to descend. The lightof a shaded lanthorn beamed for an instant on the dark surface of thewater, then vanished.

  She did not see the lanthorn, she did not see the boat, for she wasglaring in the other direction, the direction in which she had heardthe footsteps. All her senses were concentrated on the thing close toher. But some reflection of the light, glancing off the water, didreveal a thing--a dim uncertain something--man or woman, dead oralive, standing close to her, beside her: and with a shriek she sprangfrom the thing, whateve
r it was, gave way to blind panic, and fled.For some thirty yards she kept the road. Then she struck the bank andfell, violently bruising herself. But she felt nothing. In a momentshe was on her feet again and running on, running on blindly, madly.She fancied feet behind her, and a hand stretched out to seize herhair; and in terror, that terror which she had kept at bay so long andso bravely, she ran on at random, until she found herself, she knewnot how, clinging with both hands to the wicket-gate of the garden. Afaint light in one of the windows of the inn had directed her to it.

  She stood then, still trembling in every limb, but drawing couragefrom the neighbourhood of living things. And as well as her labouredbreathing would let her, she listened. But presently she caught thestealthy trip-trip of feet along the road, and in a quick return ofterror she opened the gate and slipped into the garden. She had thepresence of mind to close the gate after and without noise. But thatdone, woman's nerves could bear no more. Her knees were shaking underher, as she groped her way to her window, and felt for the chair whichshe had left beneath it.

  The chair was gone. Impossible! She could not have found the rightwindow; that was it. She felt with her hands along the wall, feltfarther. But there was no chair--anywhere. She had made no mistake.Some one had removed the chair.

  Strange to say, the moment she was sure of that, the fear which haddriven her in headlong panic from the water-side left her. She thoughtno more of her stealthy attendant. Her one care now was to get in--toget in and still to keep secret the fact that she had been out! Shehad trembled like a leaf a few moments before, in fear of theshapeless thing that crouched beside her in the night. Now, with nomore than the garden-fence between her and it, she feared it no morethan a feather. She regained her ordinary plane, and foresaw all thesuspicion, all the inconvenience, to which her position, if she couldnot re-enter, must subject her. And the smaller, the immediate fearexpelled the greater and more remote.

  She leant against the wall and tried to think. Who had, who could haveremoved the chair? She could not guess. And thinking only increasedher eagerness, her anxiety to enter and be safe. She must get insomehow, even at a little risk.

  She tried to take hold of the sill above her, and so to raise herselfto the window by sheer strength. But she could not grasp the sill,though she could touch it. Still, if she had something in place of thechair, if she had something a foot high on which to raise herself shecould succeed. But what? And how was she to find anything in the dark?She peered round, compelling herself to think. Surely she might findsomething. With a single foot of height she was saved. Without thatfoot of height she must rouse the house; and that meant disgrace andcontumely, and degrading suspicion. Her cheeks burned at the prospect.For no story, no explanation would account satisfactorily for herabsence from the house at such an hour.

  She was about to grope her way round the house to the yard at theback--where with luck she might find a chicken coop or a stablebucket--when five paces from her the latch of the wicket clickedsharply. By instinct she flattened herself against the wall; but shehad scarcely time to feel the sudden leap of her heart before a mildvoice spoke out of the gloom.

  "I'm afraid I have taken your chair," it murmured, "pray forgive me. Iam Mr. Sutton, and I--I am very sorry!"

  "You followed me!"

  "I----"

  "You followed me!" Her voice rang imperative with anger. "You followedme! You have been spying on me! You!"

  "No! No!" he muttered. "I meant only----"

  "How dare you! How dare you!" she cried in low fierce tones. "You havebeen spying on me, sir! And you removed the chair that--that I mightnot enter without your help."

  He was silent a moment, standing, though she could not see him, withhis chin on his breast. Then:

  "I confess," he said in a low tone. "I confess it was so. I spied onyou."

  "And followed me!"

  "Yes," he admitted it, his hands extended in unseen deprecation, "Idid."

  "Why?" she cried. "Why, sir?"

  "Because----"

  "But I do not want to know," she retorted, cutting him short as sheremembered the time, and place, "I want to know nothing, to hearnothing from you! The chair, sir! The chair, if you do not wish to addfurther outrage to your unmanly conduct. Set me the chair and go!"

  "But hear at least," he pleaded, "why I followed you, Miss Damer.Why----"

  She stamped her foot on the ground.

  "The chair!" she repeated.

  He was most anxious to tell her that though other motives had led himto spy on her and watch her window, he had followed her out of a puredesire to protect her. But her insistence overrode him, silenced him.He set the chair under the passage window and murmured submissivelythat it was there.

  That was enough for her. She felt for it, found it, and withoutthought of him or word to him, she climbed nimbly in. That done shestooped and drew the chair up, and closed the window down upon him andsecured it. Next, feeling for the door of Mr. Rogers's room she gotrid of the chair, and seized her hidden candle and crept out and upthe stairs. Apparently all the house, save the man who had detectedher, slept. But she did not dare to pause or prove the fact. She hadhad her lesson and a severe one; and she did not breathe freely untilthe door of her chamber was locked behind her, and she knew herselfonce more within the bounds of the usual and the proper.

  Then for a brief while, as she tore off her damp clothes, her thoughtsran stormily on Mr. Sutton: nor did she dream, or he, from what thingshe had saved her. The man was a wretch, a spy, a sneak trying to wormhimself into her confidence. She would box his ears if he threatenedher or referred to the matter again. And if he told others--she didnot know what she would not do! For the rest, she had let herself bescared by a nothing, by a step, by a sound; and she despised herselffor her cowardice. But--she had that consolation--she had played herpart, she had gone to the rendezvous, she had not failed. The faultlay with him who should have met her there, and who had not met her.

  And so, shivering and chilled--for bedroom fires were not yet, and shewas worn out with fright and exposure--she hid herself under the heavypatchwork quilt and sought comfort in the sleep of exhaustion. It wasnot long in coming, for she suspected no more than she knew. Like thepurblind insect that creeps upon the crowded pavement and is missed bya hundred feet, she discerned neither the dangers which she had sonarrowly escaped, nor those into which her late action was fated tohurry her.

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE EDGE OF THE STORM

  It was daylight when she awoke; but it had not been daylight long. Yetsome one was knocking; and knocking loudly at the door of her bedroom.She rose on her elbow, and looking at the half-curtained windowdecided that it was eight o'clock, perhaps a little later. But not somuch later that they need raise the house in waking her.

  "Thank you," she cried petulantly. "That will do! That will do! I amawake." And she laid her head on the pillow again, and closing hereyes, sighed deeply. The events of the night were coming back toher--and with them her troubles.

  But, "Please to open the door, miss!" came the answer in gruffaccents. "I want to speak to you, by your leave."

  Henrietta sat up, her hair straggling from under the nightcap thatframed her pretty features. The voice that demanded entrance was Mrs.Gilson's: and even over Henrietta that voice had power. She parleyedno longer. She threw a wrap about her, and hastily opened the door.

  "What is it?" she asked. "Mrs. Gilson, is it you?"

  "Be good enough," the landlady answered, "to let me come in a minute,miss."

  Her peremptory tone astonished Henrietta, who said neither Yes nor No,but stood staring. The landlady with little ceremony took leave forgranted. She entered, went by the girl to the window, and dragging thecurtains aside, let in the full light. The adventures of the night hadleft Henrietta pale. But at this her colour rose.

  "What is it?" she repeated.

  "You know best," Mrs. Gilson answered with more than her usualcurtness. "De
al of dirt and little profit, I'm afraid, like BroughMarch fair! It's not enough to be a fool once, it seems! Though I'dhave thought you'd paid pretty smartly for it. Smart enough to knowbetter now, my lass!"

  "I don't know what you mean," Henrietta faltered.

  "You don't?" Mrs. Gilson rejoined, and with her arms set akimbo shestared severely at the girl, who, in her night-clothes with her cloakthrown about her and her colour coming and going, looked both guiltyand frightened. "I fancy your face knows, if you don't. Where were youlast night? Ay, after dark last night, madam? Where were you, I say?"

  "After dark?" Henrietta stammered.

  "Ay, after dark!" the landlady retorted. "That's English, isn't it?But never mind. Least said is soonest mended. Where are your shoes?"

  "My shoes?"

  Mrs. Gilson lost patience, or appeared to lose it.

  "That is what I said," she replied. "You give them to me, and thenI'll tell you why I want them. Ah!" catching sight of them and bendingher stout form to lift them from the floor. "Now, if you want to knowwhat is the matter, though I think you know as well as the millerknows who beats the meal sack--you come with me! There is no one onthis landing. Come you, as you are, to the window at the other end.'And you'll know fast enough, and why they want your shoes."

  "They?" Henrietta murmured, hanging back and growing more alarmed. Itwas a pity that there was no man there to see how pretty she looked inher disorder.

  "Ay, they!" the landlady answered. And a keen ear might have detectedsorrow as well as displeasure in her tone. "There's many will bepoking their noses into your affairs now you'll find--when it's toolate to prevent them. But do you come, young woman!" She led the wayalong the landing to a window which looked down on the side-garden.After a brief hesitation Henrietta followed, her face grown sullen.Alas! when she reached the window it needed but a look to enlightenher.

  One of the things, which she had feared the previous day, had come topass! A little snow had fallen while she was absent from the house; sovery little that she had not noticed it. But it had lain, and on itswhite surface was published this morning in damning characters thestory of her flittings to and fro. And worse, early as it was, thestory had readers! Leaning on the garden wicket were two or three mendiscussing the appearances, and pointing and arguing; and forty orfifty yards along the road towards Bowness, a man, bent double, wastracing the prints of her feet, as if he followed a scent.

  It was for that, then, that they wanted her shoes. She understood, andher first impulse was to indignation. It was an outrage! An insult!

  "What is it to them?" she cried. "How dare they!"

  Mrs. Gilson looked keenly at her under her vast bushy eyebrows.

  "I'm afraid," she said, "that you'll find they'll dare a mort morethan that before they've done, my girl. And what they want to knowthey'll learn. These," coolly lifting the shoes to sight, "are to helpthem."

  "But why should they--what is it to them if I----" she stopped,unwilling to commit herself.

  "You listen to me a minute," the landlady said. "You've brought yourpigs to a poor market, that's plain: and there is but one thing canhelp you now, and that is a clean breast. Now you make up your mind toit! There's nought else can help you, I say again, and that I tellyou! It's no child's play, this! The truth, the whole truth, andnothing but the truth, as they say at the assizes, is the only thingfor you, if you don't want to be sorry for it all the rest of yourlife."

  She spoke so seriously that Henrietta when she answered took a lowertone; though she still protested.

  "What is it to any one," she asked, "if I was out of the house lastnight?"

  "It's little to me," Mrs. Gilson answered drily. "But it will be muchto you if you don't tell the truth. Your own conscience, my girl,should speak loud enough."

  "My conscience is clear!" Henrietta cried. But her tone, a little tooheroic, fitted ill with her appearance.

  At any rate Mrs. Gilson, who did not like heroics, thought so. "Thenthe best thing you can do," she replied tartly, "is to go and dressyourself! A clear conscience! Umph! Give me clean hands! And if I wereyou I'd be quite sure about that conscience before I came down toanswer questions."

  "I shall not come down."

  "Then they'll come up," the landlady retorted. "And 'twon't be morepleasant. You'd best think twice about that."

  Henrietta was thinking. Behind the sullen, pretty face she wasthinking that if she made a clean breast of it, she must betray theman. She must say where she had seen him, and why she had gone to meethim. And that was the thing which she had resolved not to do--thething which she was still determined not to do. There is a spiceof obstinacy in all women: an inclination to abide by a line oncetaken, or an opinion once formed. And Henrietta, who was naturallyhead-strong, and who had run some risk the previous night and gone tosome trouble that the man might escape, was not going to give him upto-day. They had found her out, they had driven her to bay. Butnothing which they could do would wound her half as much as thatpublic ordeal, that confrontation with the man, that exhibition of hisunworthiness and her folly, which must follow his capture. For the manhimself, she was so far from loving him, that she loathed him, she wasashamed of him. But she was not going to betray him. She was not goingto turn informer--a name more hateful then, when blood-money wascommon, than now! She who had been kissed by him was not going to havehis blood on her hands!

  Such were her thoughts; to which Mrs. Gilson had no clue. But thelandlady read recalcitrancy in the girl's face, and knowing somethings which Henrietta did not know, and being at no time one to brookopposition, she took the girl the wrong way. If she had appealed toher better feelings, if she had used that influence with her whichrough but real kindness had won, it is possible that she might havebrought Henrietta to reason. But the sight of that sullen, pretty faceprovoked the landlady. She had proof of gross indiscretion, shesuspected worse things, she thought the girl unworthy. And she spokemore harshly to her than she had ever spoken before.

  "If you were my girl," she said grimly, "I'd know what to do with you!I'd shake the humours out of you, if I had to shake you from now tillnext week! Ay, I would! And you'd pretty soon come to your senses andfind your tongue, I warrant! Didn't you pretend to me and maintain tome a week ago and more that you'd done with the scamp?"

  "I have done with him!" Henrietta cried, red and angry.

  "Ay, as the foot has done with the shoe--till next time!" Mrs. Gilsonretorted, drawing her simile from the articles in her hand. "Forshame. For shame, young woman!" severely. "When it was trusting tothat I kept you here and kept you out of gaol!"

  Henrietta had not thought of that side of the case; and the reminder,finding a joint in her armour, stung her.

  "You don't know to whom you are talking!" she cried.

  "I know that I am talking to a fool!" the landlady retorted. "Butthere," she continued irefully, "you may talk to a fool till you aredead and 'twill still be a fool! So it's only one bit of advice I'llgive you. You dress and come down or you'll be dragged down! And Isuppose, though you are not too proud to trapse the roads to meet yourJoe--ay," raising her voice as Henrietta turned in a rage, and fled,"you may slam the door, you little vixen, for a vixen you are! Butyou've heard some of my opinion of you, and you'll hear more! I'm notsure that you're not a thorough bad 'un!" Mrs. Gilson continued,lowering her voice again and speaking to herself--though her wordswere still audible. "That I'm not! But any way there'll be one hereby-and-by you'll have to listen to! And he'll make your ears burn, mylady, or I'm mistaken!"

  It was bad enough to hear through the ill-fitting door such words asthese. It was worse to know that plainer words might be useddownstairs in the hearing of man and maid. But Henrietta had the senseto know that her position would be made worse by avoiding the issue,and pride enough to urge her to face it. She hastened to dressherself, though her fingers shook with indignation as well as withcold.

  It was only when she was nearly ready to descend that she noticed howlarge was the crowd collecte
d before the inn. She could hardly believethat her escapade--much as it might interest the police officer--wasthe cause of this. And a chill of apprehension, a thrill ofanticipation of she knew not what, kept her for a moment standingbefore the window. She had done, she told herself, no harm. She had noreal reason to fear. And yet she was beginning to fear. Anger wasbeginning to give place to dismay. For it was clear that something outof the common had happened; besides the group in the road, three orfour persons were inspecting the boats drawn up on the foreshore. Andon the lake was a stir unusual at this season. Half a mile from theshore a boat under sail was approaching the landing-place from thedirection of Wray Woods. It was running fast before the bitter lash ofthe November wind that here and there flecked the grey and melancholyexpanse with breakers. And round the point from the direction ofAmbleside a second boat was reaching, with the wind on her quarter.She fancied that the men in these boats made signs to those on theshore; and that the excitement grew with their report. While she gazedtwo or three of the people in the road walked down to the water. Andwith a puckered brow, and a face a shade paler than usual, shehesitated; wishing that she knew what had happened and was sure thatthe stir had not to do with her.

  She would have preferred to wait upstairs until the boats arrived. Butshe remembered Mrs. Gilson's warning. Moreover, she was beginning tocomprehend--as men do, and women seldom do--that there is a forcewhich it is futile to resist--that of the law. Sooner or later shemust go down. So taking her courage in both hands she opened her door,and striving to maintain a dignified air she descended the stairs, andmade her way past the passage window to Mr. Rogers's room.

  It was empty, and first appearances were reassuring. Her breakfast waslaid and waiting, the fire was cheerful, the room tended toencouragement. But the murmur of excited voices still rose from thehighway below, and kept her uneasy: and when she went to theside-window to view the scene of last night's evasion, she stamped herfoot with vexation. For where the tracks of feet were clearest theyhad been covered with old boxes to protect them from the frostysunshine which the day promised; and the precaution smacked sostrongly of the law and its methods that it had an ill look. NotRobinson Crusoe on his desert island had made a more ridiculous fussabout a foot-print or two!

  She was still knitting her brows over the device when there came aknock at the door. She turned and confronted Bishop. The man's manneras he entered was respectful enough, but he had not waited for leaveto come in. And she had a sickening feeling that he was takingpossession of her, that he would not leave her again, that from thistime she was not her own. The gravity of the bluff red face did notlessen this feeling. And though she would fain have asked him hisbusiness and challenged his intrusion she could not find a word.

  "I take it, you'd as soon see me alone, miss," he said. And he closedthe door behind him, and stood with his hat in his hand. "You'd bestgo on with your breakfast, for you look a bit peaky--you're a bitshaken, I expect, by what has happened. But don't you be afraid," withsomething like a wink, "there's no harm will happen to you if you aresensible. Meanwhile I'll talk to you, by your leave, while you eat. Itwill save time, and time's much. I suppose," he continued, as sheforced herself to take her seat and pour out her tea, "there's no needto tell you, miss, what has happened?"

  She would have given much to prevent her hand shaking, and somethingto be able to look him in the face. She did succeed in maintainingoutward composure; for agitation is more clearly felt than perceived.But she could not force the colour to her cheeks, nor compel hertongue to utterance. And he let her swallow some tea before herepeated his question.

  "I suppose there is no need, miss, to tell you what has happened?"

  "I do not know"--she murmured--"to what you refer. You must speak moreplainly."

  "It's a serious matter," he said. He appeared to be looking into hishat, but he was really watching her over its edge, "A serious matter,miss, and I hope you'll take it as it should be taken. For if it goesbeyond a point the Lord only can stop it. So if you know, miss, andhave no need to be told, it's best for you to be frank. We know a gooddeal."

  The warm tea had given her command of herself.

  "If you mean," she said, "that I was out last night, I was."

  "We know that, of course."

  "You have my shoes," with a little shrug of contempt.

  "Yes, miss, and your footprints!" he answered. "The point on which wewant information--and the sooner we have it the better--is, where didyou leave him?"

  "Where did I leave--whom?" sharply.

  "The person you met."

  "I met no one."

  The runner shook his head gently. And his face grew longer.

  "For God's sake, miss," he said earnestly, "don't fence with me. Don'ttake that line! Believe me, if you do you'll be sorry. Time's thething. Tell us now and it may avail. Tell us to-morrow and it may beof no use. The harm may be done."

  She stared at him. "But I met no one," she said.

  "There are the footprints, coming and going," he answered withseverity. "It is no use to deny them."

  "A man's--with mine?"

  "For certain."

  She looked at him with a startled expression. But gradually her facecleared, she smiled.

  "Ah," she said. "Just so. You have the man's tracks coming and going?And mine?"

  He nodded.

  "But are not his tracks as well as mine more faint as they go from thehouse? More clear as they come back to the house? Because snow wasfalling while I was out as well as before I started. So that he aswell as I went from the house and returned to the house!"

  He frowned. "I noticed that," he said.

  "Then," with a faint ring of amusement in her tone, "you had bettersearch the house for him."

  The difficulty had occurred to Mr. Bishop before he entered. But itdid not fall in with his theory, and like many modern discoverers hehad set it on one side as a detail which events would explain. Put tohim crudely it vexed him.

  "See here, miss, you're playing with us," he said. "And it won't do.Tell us frankly----"

  "I will tell you frankly," she answered, cutting him short withspirit, "whose tracks they are. They are Mr. Sutton's. Now you know.And Mr. Sutton is the only person I saw last night. Now you know thattoo. And perhaps you will leave me." She rose as she finished.

  "Mr. Sutton was with you?"

  "I have said so. You have my shoes. Get his. What I say is easilytested and easily proved."

  She had the pleasure of a little triumph. The runner looked takenaback and ashamed of himself. But after the first flush ofastonishment he did not waste a minute. He turned, opened the door,and disappeared.

  Henrietta listened to his departing steps, then with a sigh of reliefshe returned to her breakfast. Her spirits rose. She felt that she hadexaggerated her troubles; that she had allowed herself to be alarmedwithout cause. The landlady's rudeness, rather than any realperplexity or peril, had imposed on her. Another time she would not beso lightly frightened. For, after all, she had done nothing of whicheven Mr. Sutton, if he told the truth, could make much. They mightsuspect that she had stolen out to meet Walterson; but as she had notmet him, they could prove nothing. They might conclude from it, thathe was in the neighbourhood; but as Bishop already held that belief,things were left where they were before. Except, to be sure, that forsome reason she had lost the landlady's favour.

  The girl had arrived at this comfortable stage in her reasoning whenthe shuffling of feet along the passage informed her that Bishop wasreturning. Nor Bishop only. He brought with him others, it was clear,and among them one heavy man in boots--she caught the harsh ring of aspur. Who were they? Why were they coming? Involuntarily she rose toher feet, and waited with a quickened heart for their appearance.

  The sounds that reached her were not encouraging. One of the menstumbled, and growled an oath; and one laughed a vulgar common laughas at some jest in doubtful taste. Then the door opened wide, and withlittle ceremony they followed one another into the room, o
ne, two,three.

  ... he touched his brow with his whip handle]

  Bishop first, with his bluff, square face. Then a stranger, a tallbulky man, heavy-visaged and bull-dog jawed, with harsh, over-bearingeyes. He wore an open horseman's coat, and under it a broad leatherbelt with pistols; and he touched his brow with his whip-handle in ahalf familiar, half insolent way. After him came the pale, peaky faceof Mr. Sutton, who looked chap-fallen and ashamed of himself.

  The moment all had entered,

  "Mr. Chaplain, close the door," said the stranger in a broadLancashire accent, and with an air of authority. "Now, Bishop, supposeyou tell the young lady--damme, what's that?" turning sharply, "Who isit?"