ed to forget; but hearing the sound of wheels, he entered a
field as though to examine the crops until the vehicle had passed.

It was not Wilson, but it might have been, and at the next turning he
unconsciously branched off the Cornmarket road.

It was noon when he came within sight of Coldingham, six miles from
Worsted Skeynes. He would have enjoyed a glass of beer, but, unable to
enter the public-house, he went into the churchyard instead. He sat down
on a bench beneath a sycamore opposite the Winlow graves, for Coldingham
was Lord Montrossor's seat, and it was here that all the Winlows lay.
Bees were busy above them in the branches, and Mr. Barter thought:

'Beautiful site. We've nothing like this at Worsted Skeynes....'

But suddenly he found that he could not sit there and think. Suppose his
wife were to die! It happened sometimes; the wife of John Tharp of
Bletchingham had died in giving birth to her tenth child! His forehead
was wet, and he wiped it. Casting an angry glance at the Winlow graves,
he left the seat.

He went down by the further path, and came out on the green. A
cricket-match was going on, and in spite of himself the Rector stopped.
The Coldingham team were in the field. Mr. Barter watched. As he had
thought, that left-hand bowler bowled a good pace, and "came in" from the
off, but his length was poor, very poor! A determined batsman would soon
knock him off! He moved into line with the wickets to see how much the
fellow "came in," and he grew so absorbed that he did not at first notice
the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow in pads and a blue and green blazer, smoking a
cigarette astride of a camp-stool.

"Ah, Winlow, it's your team against the village. Afraid I can't stop to
see you bat. I was just passing--matter I had to attend to--must get
back!"

The real solemnity of his face excited Winlow's curiosity.

"Can't you stop and have lunch with us?"

"No, no; my wife--Must get back!"

Winlow murmured:

"Ah yes, of course." His leisurely blue eyes, always in command of the
situation, rested on the Rector's heated face. "By the way," he said,
"I'm afraid George Pendyce is rather hard hit. Been obliged to sell his
horse. I saw him at Epsom the week before last."

The Rector brightened.

"I made certain he'd come to grief over that betting," he said. "I'm
very sorry--very sorry indeed."

"They say," went on Winlow, "that he dropped four thousand over the
Thursday race.

"He was