Macheson knew directly they entered the farm that Wilhelmina had brought him here for some purpose. For Mrs. Foulton straightened herself at the sight of him, and forgot even her usual respectful courtesy to the lady of the Manor.

“I have brought Mr. Macheson to see you, Mrs. Foulton,” Wilhelmina said. “We want you to give us some tea—and there is a question which I think you ought to ask him.”

The woman was trembling. She seemed for the moment to have no words.

“If you like,” Wilhelmina continued calmly, “I will ask it for you. Did you know, Mr. Macheson, that Letty Foulton has left home and has gone away without a word to her mother?”

“I did not know it,” Macheson answered gravely. “I am very sorry.”

“You—didn’t know it? You don’t know where she is?” the woman demanded fiercely.

“Certainly not,” Macheson answered. “How should I?”

The woman looked bewildered. She turned towards Wilhelmina as though for an explanation.

“Mr. Macheson has himself to blame,” Wilhelmina said, “if his action in bringing your daughter to me that night has been misunderstood. At any rate, he cannot refuse to tell you now what he refused to tell me. You understand, Mr. Macheson,” she added, turning towards him, “Mrs. Foulton insists upon knowing with whom you found her daughter having supper that night in London.”

Macheson hesitated only for a moment.

“Your daughter was with Mr. Stephen Hurd, Mrs. Foulton,” he said.

The woman threw her apron over her head and hastened away. They heard her sobbing in the kitchen. Wilhelmina shrugged her shoulders.

“What a bore!” she remarked. “We shan’t get any tea. People of this sort have no self-control.”

Macheson looked at her sternly.

“Have the people here,” he asked, “been connecting me with this child’s disappearance?”

“I suppose so,” she answered carelessly. “Rather a new line for you, isn’t it—the gay Lothario! It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t be so mysterious.”

“You didn’t believe it?” he said shortly.

“Why not? You’ve been—seeing life lately, haven’t you?”

“You didn’t believe it?” he repeated, keeping his eyes fixed upon her.

She came over to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Her pale face was upturned to his. It seemed open to him to transform her attitude into a caress.

“Of course not, dear,” she answered. “If—any one else did, they will soon know the truth.”

“All the same,” he muttered, “it’s horrible. We must do something!”

She moved away from him wearily. His thoughts were full of the tragedy of Letty Foulton’s disappearance. He seemed scarcely to know that she had been almost in his arms. He turned to her suddenly.

“I shall go back,” he said, “to speak once more with Stephen Hurd.”

She looked into his face and saw things there which terrified her. He had moved already towards the door, but she stood in his way.

“No!” she cried. “It is not your affair. Let me deal with him!”

He shook his head.

“It is no matter,” he said, “for a woman to interfere in.”

“He will not listen to you,” she continued eagerly. “He will tell you that it is not your concern.”

“It is the concern of every honest man,” he interrupted. “You must please let me go!”

She was holding his arm, and she refused to withdraw her fingers. Then Mrs. Foulton intervened.

She had smoothed her hair and was carrying a tea-tray. They both looked at her as though fascinated.

“I hope I have not kept you waiting, madam,” she said quietly. “I had to send Ruth up for the cream. The boy’s at Loughborough market, and I’m a bit shorthanded.”

“I—oh! I’m sorry you bothered about the tea, Mrs. Foulton,” Wilhelmina said, with an effort. “But how good it looks! Come, Mr. Macheson! I don’t know whether you’ve had any lunch, but I haven’t. I’m perfectly ravenous.”

“I’ve some sandwiches in my pocket,” Macheson answered, moving slowly to the table, “but to tell you the truth, I’d forgotten them.”

She drew off her gloves and seated herself before the teapot. All the time her eyes were fixed upon Macheson. She was feverishly anxious to have him also seat himself, and he could scarcely look away from the woman who, with a face like a mask, was calmly arranging the things from the tray upon the table. When she left the room he drew a little breath.

“Do they feel—really, these people,” he asked, “or are they Stoics?”

“We feel through our nerves,” she answered, “and they haven’t many. Is that too much cream?—and pass the strawberry jam, please.”

He ate and drank mechanically. The charm of this simple meal alone with her was gone—it seemed to him that there was tragedy in the arrangement of the table. She talked to him lightly, and he answered—what he scarcely knew. Suddenly he interposed a question.

“When did this girl Letty leave home?” he asked.

“I am not sure,” she answered. “We will ask Mrs. Foulton.”

Mrs. Foulton came silently in.

“We want to know, Mrs. Foulton, when Letty went away,” Wilhelmina asked.

“A week ago to-morrow, madam,” Mrs. Foulton answered. “Is there anything else you will be wanting?”

“Nothing, thank you,” Wilhelmina answered, and then, seeing that the woman lingered, she continued:

“Are you wanting to get rid of us?”

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 sex 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 succumbed 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 superstition 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.