ow?"

CHAPTER XVI.

MR. JACK ROGERS AS A MAN OF AFFAIRS.

"I know," said I, meeting her gaze sturdily, "that you are in
danger."

"How should I be in danger?"

"That I cannot tell you, Miss Isabel, unless you first tell me
something."

She waited, her eyes searching mine.

"Last night," I went on, "in the road--you were expecting someone."

Her chin went up proudly; but a tide of red rose with it, flushing
her throat and so creeping up and colouring her face.

"Was it Archibald Plinlimmon?"

She put up a hand as if to push me aside: but on a sudden turned and
hastened from me, with bowed head, towards the cottage.

"Miss Isabel!" I cried, following her close. "I meant no harm--how
could I mean you harm? Miss Isabel!"

I would not let her go, but followed her to the door, entreating;
even pushed after her into the small kitchen, where at last she faced
on me.

"Why cannot you let me alone, boy? Into what have you come
here to pry? You are odious--yes, odious!" She stamped her foot.
"And I thought last night, that you were in trouble. Was I not
kind to you for that, and that only?" She broke off pitifully.
"Oh, Harry, I am dreadfully unhappy!"

She sank into a chair beside the table, across which she flung an arm
and so leaned her brow and let the sobs shake her.

"And I am here to help you, Miss Isabel: only so much is puzzling me!
Last night you said you had a secret, and that it was a happy one.
To-day you are crying, and it is miserable to see."

"And why should I not be happy?" She lifted a hand to the bosom of
her bodice, and slipped over her third finger the ring she had worn
over-night.

"Why should I not be expecting him?" she murmured.

For the moment I was slow in understanding. But I suppose that at
length she saw that in my eyes which satisfied her: for she drew down
my head to her lap, and sat laughing and weeping softly.

A kettle hanging from a crook in the chimney-place boiled over,
hissing down upon the hot wood-ashes. She sprang up and lifted it
down to the hearth.

"Oh, and I forgot!" Her hand went back to her bodice again.
"Mr. Jack Rogers was here this morning inquiring for you. He drove
up in his tilbury, and said he was on his way to Plymouth. But he
left this note."

I took it and deciphered these words, scrawled in an abominable hand:

"Meet me to-night, nine o'clock, at the place where we parted.
J.