ter, and call to its
mate. The abnormal had vanished, reduced itself once more to plain
wholesome common sense. And then suddenly, and without warning, a
sentence flashed through his brain.

* * * * *

Antony sat up, clenching his hands furiously between his knees. It was
absurd, preposterous. There was no smallest occasion to take those words
in such a desperately literal sense.

"In short, he will do all in his power to give the impression that he is
simply and solely Michael Field, working-man, and under-gardener at
Chorley Old Hall."

The words rang as clearly in his brain as if there were someone in the
room speaking them aloud. Once more the window vanished. There were no
voices speaking now; there was only a curious and rather horrible
silence, in which there was no need for voices.

The faintest little whine from Josephus aroused him. It was long past the
dinner hour, and racing the sands is exceedingly hungry work.

Antony's eyes came back from the window. His face was rather white, and
his mouth set in a straight line. But there was an oddly triumphant look
in his eyes.

"I think a meal will do us both good, old man," he said with a little
whimsical smile. And he began getting down plates from the dresser.

CHAPTER XV

IN THE GARDEN

Some fifteen or more years ago, the gardens of Chorley Old Hall were
famous for their beauty. They still deserved to be famous, and the reason
that they were so no longer, arose merely from the fact that they had
become unknown, had sunk into obscurity, since no one but the actual
inmates of the Hall, Doctor Hilary, and the gardeners themselves ever set
eyes on them.

Yet Golding, being an artist at heart, cared for them for pure love of
the work, rather than for any kudos such care might bring him. Had he
read poetry with as great diligence as he read works on horticulture, he
would possibly have declared his doctrine to be found in the words:--

Work thou for pleasure, paint, or sing or carve
The thing thou lovest, though the body starve.
Who works for glory misses oft the goal,
Who works for money coins his very soul.
Work for the work's sake, and it may be
That these things shall be added unto thee.

Certain it is that the gardens under his care were as beautiful as
gardens may be. Where trimness was desirable, they were as neat, as
well-ordered