, her friendship, had begun to mean
a good deal to him. For twenty years he had lived in loneliness.
Now, it seemed, he had found a friend, in these days when the new
independence of women opens a thousand fresh possibilities not only
to them, but to men also.

Well, well, it was all over! Better make up his mind to it.

He went to the window, as it was nearing ten o'clock, and looked
out. It was foggy still, the moon and stars scarcely visible. He
hoped they would have at least the sense at the Rectory to provide
her with a lantern, for under the trees the road was very dark.

Oh, far in the distance, a twinkling light! Good! The Squire hastily
shut the window, and resumed his pacing. Presently he thought he
heard the house door open and shut, and a little while after the
library clock struck ten.

Now it would be only the natural thing to go and say good-night to
his daughters, and, possibly, to inquire after a headache.

The Squire accordingly emerged. In the hall he found his three
daughters engaged in lighting their candles at the Chippendale
table, where for about a hundred and fifty years the ladies of
Mannering had been accustomed to perform that rite.

The master of the house inquired coldly whether Miss Bremerton had
returned safely. 'Oh yes,' said his daughter Margaret, 'but she went
up to bed at once. She hasn't got rid of her headache.'

Mrs. Strang's stiff manner, and the silence of the others showed the
Squire that he was deep in his daughters' black books. Was he also
charged with Miss Bremerton's headache? Did any of them guess what
had happened? He fancied from the puzzled look in Pamela's eyes as
she said good-night to him that she guessed something.

Well, he wasn't going to tell them anything. He went back to the
library, and presently Pamela, in her room upstairs, heard first the
library bell, then the steps of Forest crossing the hall, and
finally a conversation between the Squire and the butler which
seemed to last some time.

* * * * *

It was in the very early morning--between four and five--that
Elizabeth was wakened, first by vague movements in the house, and
then by what seemed to be cautious voices outside. She drew a
curtain back and looked out--a misty morning, between darkness and
dawn, and trees standing on the grass in dim robes of amethyst and
gold. Two men in the middle distance were going away from the house.
She craned her neck. Yes--no d