The woman hesitated.

"It isn't that, madam," she said, "but I'm wanting to step out as soon as possible."

The same idea occurred at once to both Wilhelmina and Macheson.

"You are going down to the village, Mrs. Foulton?" Wilhelmina asked gravely.

"I'm going down to have a bit of talk with Mr. Stephen Hurd, madam," she answered grimly. "I'd be glad to clear away as soon as convenient."

Wilhelmina turned round in her chair, and laid her hand upon the woman's arm.

"Mrs. Foulton," she said, "Mr. Macheson and I are going to see him at once. Leave it to us, please."

Mrs. Foulton shook her head doubtfully.

"Letty's my daughter, madam, thank you kindly," she said. "I must go myself."

Wilhelmina shook her head.

"No!" she said firmly. "You can go and see him afterwards, if you like.

Mr. Macheson and I are going to see what we can do first. Believe me, Mrs. Foulton, it will be better for Letty."

The woman was shaken and Wilhelmina pushed home her advantage.

"We are going straight to the village now, Mrs. Foulton," she said. "You will only have to be patient for a very short time. Come, Mr. Macheson.

If you are ready we will start."

They walked briskly along the country lane, through the early twilight.

They said little to one another.

Macheson was profoundly moved by the tragedy of Letty's disappearance.

With his marvellous gift of sympathy, he had understood very well the suffering of the woman whom they had just left. He shivered when he thought of the child. With every step they took, his face resolved itself into grimmer lines. Wilhelmina was forced at last to protest.

"After all," she said, touching his arm, "this young man will scarcely run away. Please remember that I am not an athletic person--and I have not much breath left."

He slackened his pace at once.

"I am sorry," he said. "I was forgetting."

"Yes," she answered simply, "you were forgetting. I--noticed it!"

To Macheson, her irritation seemed childish--unworthy. He knew so little of women--or their moods.

"What are you going to say to Stephen Hurd?" he asked abruptly.

"I shall make him marry Letty Foulton," she answered.

"Can you do it?" he demanded.

"He must marry her or go," she declared. "I will make that quite clear."

Macheson drew a little breath. He suddenly realized that for all his impetuosity, the woman who walked so calmly by his side held the cards.

He slackened his pace. The lane had narrowed now, and on either side of them was a tall holly hedge. Her hand stole through his arm.

"Well," she said softly, "you have not told me yet whether your pilgrimage to Paris was a success."

He turned upon her almost fiercely.

"Yes!" he answered. "It was! A complete success! I haven't an atom of sentiment left! Thank goodness!"

She laughed softly.

"I don't believe it," she whispered in his ear. "You went abroad to be cured of an incurable disease. Do you imagine that the Mademoiselle Rosines of the world count for anything? You foolish, foolish person. Do you imagine that if I had not known you--I should have let you go?"

"I am not one of your tenants," he answered grimly.

"You might be," she laughed.

"You are very kind," he declared. "But I need not tell you that nothing in this world would induce me to become one."

She walked on, humming to herself. He was hard to tame, she told herself, but the end was so sure. Yet all her experience of his s.e.x had shown her nothing like this. It was the first time she had played such a part. Was it only the novelty which she found attractive? She stole an upward glance at him through the twilight. Taller and more powerful than ever he seemed in the gathering darkness--so far as looks were concerned he was certainly desirable enough. And yet the world--her world, was full of handsome men. It must be something else which he possessed, some other less obvious gift, perhaps that flavour of puritanism about his speech and deportment, of which she was always conscious. He resisted where other men not only succ.u.mbed but rushed to meet their fate. It must be that, or----

She herself became suddenly serious. She looked straight ahead down the darkening lane. Fate could surely not play her a trick so scurvy as this. It could not be that she cared. Her hands were suddenly clenched; a little cry broke from her lips. Her heart was beating like a girl's; the delicious thrill of youth seemed to be thawing her long frozen blood. Not again! she prayed, not again! It was a catastrophe this; grotesque, impossible! She thrust out her hands, as though to guard herself from some impending danger. Macheson turned to look at her in surprise, and her eyes were glowing like stars.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked.

She laughed unnaturally.

"A memory," she answered, "a superst.i.tion if you like. Some one was walking over the grave of my forgotten days."

She pointed to the front of the low white house, now only a few yards away. A dogcart stood there waiting, with some luggage at the back.

Stephen Hurd himself, dressed for travelling, was standing in the doorway.

CHAPTER IX

FOILED

"We seem to be just in time, Mr. Hurd," Wilhelmina said. "Do you mind coming back for a moment into your study? Mr. Macheson and I have something to say to you."

He glanced at his watch. He was wholly unable to conceal his annoyance at their appearance.

"I am afraid," he said, with strained civility, "that I can only spare a couple of minutes."

"You are going to town?" she asked, as he reluctantly followed her.