"Nothing, dear!"

He set off patiently with an empty petrol tin in each hand, and she
watched him till he was lost in the dusk.

"Afraid!" she repeated. "Afraid only of one thing in this world--of
myself, of my love for him!" And then suddenly sobs shook her, and she
buried her face in her hands and cried as if her heart must break.

It took Johnny a full hour to tramp to Harlowe and to tramp back with
the two heavy tins, and then something seemed to go wrong. The car would
not start up: another hour passed, and they had a considerable way to
go, and then suddenly, seemingly without rhyme or reason, the car
started and ran beautifully, and once more they were off and away.

But they were very late when they came into Starden, and with still some
six and a half miles to go before they could reassure Connie.

"Connie will be worrying, Gipsy," Johnny said. "You know what Connie is,
bless her! She'll think all sorts of tragedies--and--" He paused, his
voice faltered, shook, and became silent.

They were running past Mrs. Bonner's cottage. The door of the cottage
stood open, and against the yellow light within they could see the
figure of a man and of a girl, and both knew the girl to be Joan
Meredyth, and the man to be Mrs. Bonner's lodger, the man that Joan had
cut that day in Starden.

The car was a quarter of a mile further down the road before either
spoke, and then Johnny said, and his voice was jerky and uncertain:

"Yes, Connie will be getting nervous. I shall be glad to have you
home--Gipsy."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

"HER CHAMPION"

Why should Joan have been at Mrs. Bonner's cottage at such an hour? Why
should she have been there talking to the very man whom she had a week
ago cut dead in the village? Why, if she had anything to say to him,
whoever he was, had she not sent for him rather than seek him at his
lodgings?

Questions that puzzled and worried Johnny Everard sorely, questions that
he could not answer. Jealousy, doubt, and all the kindred feelings came
overwhelmingly. Honest as the day, he never doubted a soul's honesty. If
he found out that a man whom he had trusted was a thief, it shocked him;
he kicked the man out and was done with him, and nothing was left but an
unpleasant memory, but Joan was different.

Trust Joan? Of course he did, utterly and entirely.

"I should be unworthy of her if I didn't," he thought. "In any case, I
am not worthy of her. It is all right!"

But was it all