It was exactly such a day as he would have chosen for his purpose when Macheson stepped out of the train at the wayside station and set his face towards Thorpe. A strong blustering wind, blowing down from the hills, had dried the road of all save a slight coating of mud, a wind fresh from the forest, so fresh and strong that he walked with his cap in his hand and his head thrown back, glad to breathe it in his lungs and feel the sting of it on his cheeks. It seemed to him that he had been away for months, as he climbed the long hill towards the village. The fields now were brown instead of green, a pungent smell of freshly turned earth and burning wood was in his nostrils. The hedges and trees were bare; he caught a glimpse of the great house itself from an unexpected point. Everywhere he was receiving familiar impressions. He came to the avenue up which he had passed on his first visit to the house, continually he met carts bearing her name, and villagers, most of whom he noticed with some surprise, looked at him doubtfully. Presently he arrived at the village itself, and stopped before the long, low, white house where Stephen Hurd lived. He paused for a moment, hesitating whether to fulfil this part of his mission now, or to wait until later in the day. Eventually, with the idea of getting the thing over, he opened the gate and rang the front-door bell.

He was shown into the study, and in a few minutes Stephen Hurd came in, smoking a pipe, his hands in his pockets. When he saw who his visitor was he stopped short. He did not offer his hand or ask Macheson to sit down. He looked at him with a heavy frown upon his face.

“You wished to see me?” he said.

“I did,” Macheson answered. “Perhaps my call is inopportune. I have come from London practically for no other reason than to ask you a single question.”

Hurd laughed shortly.

“You had better ask it then,” he said. “I thought that you might have other business in the neighbourhood. Preaching off, eh?”

“My question is simply this,” Macheson said calmly. “Have you, or had you, ever a sister?”

A dull red flush streamed into the young man’s face. He removed his pipe from his mouth and stared at Macheson. His silence for several moments seemed to arise from the fact that surprise had robbed him of the powers of speech.

“Who put you up to asking that?” he demanded sharply.

Macheson raised his eyebrows slightly.

“My question is a simple one,” he said. “If you do not choose to answer it, it is easy for me to procure the information from elsewhere. The first villager I met would tell me. I preferred to come to you.”

“I have no sister,” Hurd said slowly. “I never had. Now you must tell me why you have come here to ask me this.”

“I am told,” Macheson said, “that years ago a girl in Paris represented herself as being your father’s daughter. She is being inquired for in a somewhat mysterious way.”

“And what business is it of yours?” Hurd demanded curtly.

“None—apparently,” Macheson answered. “I am obliged to you for your information. I will not detain you any longer.”

But Stephen Hurd barred the way. Looking into his face, Macheson saw already the signs of a change there. His eyes were a little wild, and though it was early in the morning he smelt of spirits.

“No! you don’t,” he declared truculently. “You’re not going till you tell me what you mean by that question.”

“I am afraid,” Macheson answered, “that I have nothing more to tell you.”

“You will tell me who this mysterious person is,” Hurd declared.

Macheson shook his head.

“No!” he said. “I think that you had better let me pass.”

“Not yet,” Hurd answered. “Look here! You’ve been in communication with the man who came here and murdered my father. You know where he is.”

“Scarcely that, was it?” Macheson answered. “There was a struggle, but your father’s death was partly owing to other causes. However, I did not come here to discuss that with you. I came to ask you a question, which you have answered. If you will permit me to pass I shall be obliged.”

Hurd hesitated for a moment.

“Look here,” he said, with an assumption of good nature, “there’s no reason why you and I should quarrel. I want to know who put you up to asking me that question. It isn’t that I want to do him any harm. I’ll guarantee his safety, if you like, so far as I am concerned. Only I’m anxious to meet him.”

Macheson shook his head.

“I do not know where he is myself,” he answered. “In any case, I could not give you any information.”

Stephen Hurd stood squarely in front of the door.

“You’ll have to,” he said doggedly. “That’s all there is about it.”

Macheson took a step forward.

“Look here,” he said, “I shouldn’t try that on if I were you. I am stronger than you are, and I have studied boxing. I don’t care about fighting, but I am going to leave this room—at once.”

“The devil you are,” Hurd cried, striking at him. “Take that, you canting hypocrite.”

Macheson evaded the blow with ease. Exactly how it happened he never knew, but Hurd found himself a few seconds later on his back—and alone in the room. He sprang up and rushed after Macheson, who was already in the front garden. His attack was so violent that Macheson had no alternative. He knocked him into the middle of his rose bushes, and opened the gate, to find himself face to face with the last person in the world whom he expected to see in Thorpe. It was Wilhelmina herself who was a spectator of the scene!

“Mr. Macheson,” she said gravely, “what is the meaning of this?”

Macheson was taken too completely by surprise to frame an immediate answer. Stephen Hurd rose slowly to his feet, dabbing his mouth with his handkerchief.

“A little disagreement between us,” he said, with an evil attempt at a smile. “We will settle it another time.”

“You will settle it now,” the lady of the Manor said, with authority in her tone. “Shake hands, if you please. At once! I cannot have this sort of thing going on in the village.”

Macheson held out his hand without hesitation.

“The quarrel was not of my seeking,” he said. “I bear you no ill-will, Hurd. Will you shake hands?”

“No!” Stephen Hurd answered fiercely.

Macheson’s hand fell to his side.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“You will reconsider that, Mr. Hurd,” Wilhelmina said quietly.

“No!” he answered. “I am sorry, Miss Thorpe-Hatton, to seem ungracious, but there are reasons why I cannot accept his hand. He knows them well enough. We cannot possibly be friends. Don’t let us be hypocrites.”

Wilhelmina turned away coldly.

“Very well,” she said. “Mr. Macheson, will you walk with me a little way? I have something to say to you.”

“With pleasure,” he answered. “I’m sorry, Hurd,” he added, turning round.

There was no answer. Together they walked up the village street. Already the shock of seeing her had passed away, and he was fighting hard against the gladness which possessed him. He had paid dearly enough already for his folly. He was determined that there should be no return of it.

“Which way were you going?” she asked.

“To the hills,” he answered. “I can leave you at the church entrance. But before you go——”

“I am not going,” she answered. “I should love a walk. I will come with you to the hills.”

He looked at her doubtfully. She appeared to him so different a person in her country clothes—a dark brown tailor-made suit, with short skirt, a brown tam-o’-shanter and veil. She was not much more than a child after all. Her mouth was a little sad, and she was very pale and seemed tired.

“If you care to walk so far,” he said gravely—“and with me!”

“What am I expected to say to that?” she asked demurely.

“I think that you know what I mean,” he answered, avoiding her eyes. “Your villagers will certainly think it strange to see their mistress walking with the poor missioner who wasn’t allowed to hold his services.”

“I am afraid,” she answered, “that my people have learnt to expect the unexpected from me. Now tell me,” she continued, “what has brought you back to the scene of your persecutions? I am hoping you are going to tell me that it is to apologize for the shockingly rude way you left me last time we met.”

“I did not know that you were here,” he answered. “I came for two reasons—first, to collect materials for a short article in a friend’s magazine, and secondly, to ask a question of Stephen Hurd.”

“Apparently,” she remarked, “your question annoyed him.”

“He seemed annoyed before I asked it,” Macheson remarked; “I seem to have offended him somehow or other.”

“I should imagine,” she said drily, “that that is not altogether incomprehensible to you.”

So she knew or guessed who it was that had been Letty Foulton’s companion in London. Macheson was silent. They walked on for some distance, climbing all the time, till Wilhelmina paused, breathless, and leaned against a gate.

“I hope,” said she, “that you are collecting your impressions. If so, I am sure they must be in the air, for you have not looked to the right or to the left.”

He smiled and stood by her side, looking downwards. The village lay almost at their feet, and away beyond spread the mist-wreathed country, still and silent in the November afternoon. The wind had fallen, the birds were songless, nothing remained of the busy chorus of summer sounds. They stood on the edge of a plantation—the peculiar fragrance of freshly turned earth from the ploughed fields opposite, and of the carpet of wet leaves beneath their feet, had taken the place of all those sweeter perfumes which a short while ago had seemed to belong naturally to the place.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I have been thinking more about something which I have to say to you.”

“Is it something serious?” she asked.

“Rather,” he admitted.

Her eyebrows were faintly contracted. She looked up at him pathetically.

“It will keep for a little time,” she said. “Let us finish our walk first. I am down here alone, and have been dull. This exercise is what I wanted. It is doing me good. I will not have my afternoon spoilt. See, I have the key of the gate here, we will go through the plantation and up to the back of the beacon.”

She led the way, giving him no time to protest, and he followed her, vaguely uneasy. Through the plantation their feet fell noiselessly upon a carpet of wet leaves; outside on the springy turf the rabbits scampered away in hundreds to their holes. Then they began to climb. Beneath them the country expanded and rolled away like a piece of patchwork, dimly seen through a veil of mist. Wilhelmina turned towards him with a laugh. There was more colour now in her cheeks. She was breathless before they reached the summit and laid her hand upon his arm for support.

“Confess,” she said, “you like me better here than in London, don’t you?”

“You are more natural,” he answered. “You are more like what I would have you be.”

She sat down on a piece of grey rock. They were at the summit now. Below was the great house with its magnificent avenues and park, the tiny village, and the quaint church. Beyond, a spreading landscape of undulating meadows and well-tilled land. The same thought came to both of them.

“Behold,” she murmured, “my possessions.”

He nodded.

“You should be very proud of your home,” he said quietly. “It is very beautiful.”

She turned towards him. Her face was as cold and destitute of emotion as the stone on which she sat.

“Do you wonder,” she asked, “why I have never married?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“A matter of temperament, perhaps,” he said. “You are inclined to be independent, aren’t you?”

“There have been things in my life—a very secret chamber,” she said slowly. “I think that some day I shall tell you about it, for I may need help.”

“I shall be glad,” he said simply. “You know that!”

She rose and shook out her skirts.

“Come,” she said, “it is too cold to sit down. I am going to take you to Onetree Farm. Mrs. Foulton must give us some tea. I have a reason, too,” she added more slowly, “for taking you there.”