armless. I have heard him say that. You'll come again, won't you, and
you'll keep it a secret?'

Mary deliberated for a few minutes.

'I don't like secrets,' she said, 'there is generally something
dishonourable in them. But this would be an innocent secret, wouldn't
it? Well, I'll come to see you somehow, poor old man; and if Steadman
sees me here I will make everything right with him.'

'He mustn't see you here,' said the old man. 'If he does he will shut me
up in my own rooms again, as he did once, years and years ago.'

'But you have not been here long, have you?' Mary asked, wonderingly.

'A hundred years, at least. That's what it seems to me sometimes. And
yet there are times when it seems only a dream. Be sure you come again
to-morrow.'

'Yes, I promise you to come; good-night.'

'Good-night.'

Mary went back to the stable. The door was still open, but how could she
be sure that it would be open to-morrow? There was no other access that
she knew of to the quadrangle, except through the old part of the house,
and that was at times inaccessible to her.

She found a key--a big old rusty key--in the inside of the door, so she
shut and locked it, and put the key in her pocket. The door she supposed
had been left open by accident; at any rate this key made her mistress
of the situation. If any question should arise as to her conduct she
could have an explanation with Steadman; but she had pledged her word to
the poor mad old man, and she meant to keep her promise, if possible.

As she left the stable she saw Steadman riding towards the gate on his
grey cob. She passed him as she went back to the house.

Next day, and the day after that, and for many days, Mary used her key,
and went into the quadrangle at sundown to sit for half an hour or so
with the strange old man, who seemed to take an intense pleasure in her
company. The weather was growing warmer as May wore on towards June, and
this evening hour, between six and seven, was deliciously bright and
balmy. The seat by the sundial was screened on every side by the clipped
yew hedge, dense and tall, surrounding the circular, gravelled space, in
the centre of which stood the old granite dial, with its octagonal
pedestal and moss-grown steps. There, as in a closely-shaded arbour,
Lady Mary and her old friend were alone and unobserved. The yew-tree
boundary was at least eight feet high, and Mary and her companion could
hardly have been seen even from the uppe