Mrs. Darrow's first impulse was to follow and confront her victim; but on second thoughts she considered she might do better than this. It would be more to her advantage she thought to go straight to the Manor House, and demonstrate to her uncle the terrible and awfulness of his protÉgÉe. It was late, and, as a rule, she knew he retired early, but she had a very shrewd idea that she would find him up on this particular night. The servants would no doubt want to attend the carol singing, and he would surely wait till they returned. It was his invariable habit to see personally to the locking up of his house, and he insisted on the inmates going to bed long before he did so himself. Indeed, she had often wondered at his scrupulous precautions in this respect, since such a thing as a burglar was hardly known in that part of the country. But then even Mrs. Darrow did not know everything about Uncle Barton.

Passing through the still lighted village she gained the Manor House gates, walked swiftly up the avenue, and climbed the steps on to the terrace of the house, directly opposite the library windows, which were still illuminated. She rapped smartly. She heard a sudden cry, and then the over-turning of a chair, as though someone had risen in mortal terror. Finally, the Squire's voice tremulous and low.

"Who is there?—who is there?" he asked.

"It's me," replied Mrs. Darrow. "Let me in, uncle; it's me, Julia!"

"Julia!" The old man pulled up the blind and opened the window. "What on earth are you doing here at this hour?"

Mrs. Darrow stepped into the room.

"I have something to tell you," she said.

The old man closed the window carefully, and turned on her. She saw that he was shaking and white.

"Why the devil can't you call at a reasonable time?" he demanded furiously, "and enter a man's house like a Christian? You know I am old, and not very strong, yet you deliberately shake my nerves in this inconsiderate fashion."

The widow, thoroughly exhausted, dropped into a chair.

"I am very sorry, uncle," she murmured. "I feel faint—is that wine? Give me some."

Barton poured out a glass of port and gave it to her. The colour began to return to her cheeks, and with it the spiteful sparkle of triumph in her eyes.

"Well, what is it?" asked the Squire irritably.

"It's about Miss Crane," replied the widow, plunging at once into the middle of her story. "She received a letter yesterday from London which made me suspicious. This evening she asked leave to go out at nine—a most unreasonable hour—but out of consideration for what I thought would be your wish, I gave her permission. But, at the same time, I thought it right to follow her, and see what she was up to."

"Very good of you I'm sure," sneered Barton, now more himself. "Well?"

"Well, I found your Miss Crane in very intimate communion with a man behind the church—a ragged, disreputable-looking person, whom she called Jabez."

To all appearances the Squire was not in the least impressed by this information. He betrayed no sign of emotion, but fixed his eyes steadily on the triumphant face of his niece.

"And you listened to their tittle-tattle, I suppose?" he said gravely.

"It was my bounden duty to do so, uncle—and, indeed, it is well I did, for now I am in a position to warn you. That is why I came at once. You are in great danger!"

"Oh, you think I'm in danger, do you? Well, go on, and repeat what you heard, and I'll tell you whether I think so."

"I can repeat it every word," said Mrs. Darrow, whose memory was stimulated to more than ordinary activity by the venom which had prompted her action.

Barton listened attentively, though outwardly perfectly immobile.

"Well," he said, when she had finished, "is that all?"

The lady was a trifle confused. She continued,

"Of course I shall not keep Miss Crane after this. Indeed, I had intended that she should leave at the end of the month. But now, of course, she must go at once. She is evidently associated with the criminal classes—we may have robbery and murder here in no time if she remains."

"Really, Julia, your imagination is positively repulsive in its abnormal activity. I am sorry in this case to have to deprive you of the pleasure of giving rein to it to other people."

"Indeed, I shall tell everybody," replied Mrs. Darrow viciously. "This wolf in sheep's clothing shall be known for what she is—she shall be punished!"

"That is my affair solely. About what you have heard you will maintain absolute silence—do you understand—absolute silence? Not a word either to Miss Crane or anyone else."

"Indeed, I refuse to do anything of the kind—the whole of Thorpe shall know—and, what's more, she shall go."

"In that case your income ceases from this day."

This was unexpected. Mrs. Darrow took counsel with herself, and realised that her position was hopeless. She made one final attempt.

"I'm sure I only did my duty," she wailed. "How can you ask me to allow my boy to grow up in the contaminating presence of such a creature? It is too bad, uncle—too cruel of you to place me in such a position."

"Julia, far from contaminating the child, Miss Crane has already done much to counteract the effects of your very injudicious management of him. What I have said I will do. You know I am not the man to break my word."

"Gracious Heavens! I believe you are in love with the woman!"

"No, you know better than that. My relations with Miss Crane are not of an amorous nature, but they are important, nevertheless, to me—and must be respected."

"Well, if this is all the thanks I am to get for warning you of a danger that threatens your life, I hope you'll be able to protect yourself—but, mark me, uncle, you will be sorry for having behaved so cruelly. What can I do? You know I am dependent upon you and must submit. But it is wicked and wrong of you to take advantage of that to force upon me the presence of a creature I detest. And for what good?"

And Mrs. Darrow once more opened the flood-gates wide, and with them her whole battery of accompanying gesticulations.

"There, there," said Barton, pouring out another glass of wine for her, "drink this, and have a little more confidence in me. You are quite wrong about Miss Crane. Be a sensible woman, Julia, for once in a way, and drop this. I have told you I won't have it, so there's an end of the matter."

She drank the wine, adjusted her cloak, and stepped towards the window which he held open for her.

"I must do what you wish," she blurted out, "because I am poor and defenceless—but the day will come, and that soon, Uncle Barton, when you will be sorry indeed for having trusted that wretch instead of me."

Without another word he shut the window on her. Then he returned to his seat, and gazed moodily into the fire.

"I must see Miriam," he muttered, "there is danger—great danger."