blind him, he had no doubt. They had not met “accidental,” and the topic of conversation had not been Robin’s work—of that he felt sure. Roy and Robin Frost might meet and talk together all day long, it was nothing to him: why they should strive to deceive him was the only curious part about it. Both had striven to avoid meeting him; and Roy was talking to him now unwillingly. In a general way, Robin Frost was fond of meeting and receiving a word from Mr. Verner.
“I shall see him another time,” carelessly remarked Lionel. “Not so fast, Roy,”—for the man was turning away—“I have not done with you. Will you be good enough to inform me what you were doing in front of my house last night?”
“I wasn’t doing anything, sir. I wasn’t there.”
“Oh, yes, you were,” said Lionel. “Recollect yourself. You were posted under the large yew tree on the lawn, watching my drawing-room windows.”
Roy looked up at this, the most intense surprise in his countenance. “I never was on your lawn last night, sir; I wasn’t near it. Leastways not nearer than the side field. I happened to be in that, and I got through a gap in the hedge on to the high road.”
“Roy, I believe that you were on the lawn last night, watching the house,” persisted Lionel, looking fixedly at his countenance. For the life of him he could not tell whether the man’s surprise was genuine, his denial real. “What business had you there?”
“I declare to goodness, if it was the last word I had to speak, that I was not on your lawn, sir,—that I did not watch the house. I did not go near the house. I crossed the side field, cornerwise, and got out into the road; and that’s the nearest I was to the house last night.”
Roy spoke unusually impressive for him, and Lionel began to believe that, so far, he was telling truth. He did not make any immediate reply, and Roy resumed.
“What cause have you got to accuse me, sir? I shouldn’t be likely to watch your house—why should I?”
“Some man was watching it,” replied Lionel. “And as you were seen in the road shortly afterwards, close to the side field, I came to the conclusion that it was you.”
“I can be upon my oath that it wasn’t, sir,” answered Roy.
“Very well,” replied Lionel, “I accept your denial. But allow me to give you a recommendation, Roy,—not to trouble yourself with my affairs in any way. They do not concern you; they never will concern you; therefore don’t meddle with them.”
He walked away as he spoke. Roy stood and gazed after him, a strange expression on his countenance. Had Lucy Tempest seen it, she might have renewed her warning to Lionel. And yet she would have been puzzled to tell the meaning of the expression, for it did not look like a threatening one.
Had Lionel Verner turned up Clay Lane, upon leaving Matthew Frost’s cottage, instead of down it, to take a path across the fields at the back, he would have encountered the Vicar of Deerham. That gentleman was paying parochial visits that day in Clay-lane, and in due course he came to Matthew Frost’s. He and Matthew had long been upon confidential terms: the clergyman respected Matthew, and Matthew revered his pastor.
Mr. Bourne took the seat which Lionel had but recently vacated. He was so accustomed to the old man’s habitual countenance that he could detect every change in it: and he saw that something was troubling him.
“I am troubled in more ways than one, sir,” was the old man’s answer. “Poor Robin, he’s giving me trouble again: and last night, sir, I had a sort of fright. A shock, it may be said. I can’t overget it.”
“What was it’s nature?” asked Mr. Bourne.
“I don’t much like to speak of it, sir: and, beside yourself, there’s not a living man that I’d open my lips to. It’s an unpleasant thing to have upon the mind. Mr. Verner, he was here but a few minutes agone, and I felt before him like a guilty man that has something to conceal. When I have told it to you, sir, you’ll be hard of belief.”
“Is it connected with Robin?”
“No, sir. But it was my going after Robin that led to it, as may be said. Robin, sir, has took these last few nights to go out with a gun. It has worrited me so, sir, fearing some mischief might ensue, that I couldn’t sleep; and last evening, I thought I’d hobble out and see if I couldn’t get him home. Chuff, he said, as he had seen him go toward the brickfield, and I managed to get down: and, sure enough, I came upon Robin. He was lying down at the edge of the field, watching, as it seemed to me. I couldn’t get him home, sir. I tried hard, but ’twas of no use. He spoke respectful to me, as he always does: ‘Father, I have got my work to do, and I must do it. You go back home, and go to sleep in quiet.’ It was all I could get from him, sir, and at last I turned to go back—”
“What was Robin doing?” interrupted Mr. Bourne.
“Sir, I suppose it’s just some fancy or other that he has got into his head, like he used to get, after the poor child died. Mr. Verner has just asked me whether he is sane, but there’s nothing of that sort wrong about him. You mind the clump of trees that stands out, sir, between here and the brickfield, by the path that would lead to Verner’s Pride?” added old Matthew in an altered tone.
“Yes,” said Mr. Bourne.
“I had just got past it, sir, when I saw a figure crossing that bare corner from the other trees. A man’s shape, it looked like. Tall and shadowy it was, wearing what looked like a long garment, or a woman’s riding-habit, trailing on the ground. The very moment my eyes fell upon it, I felt that it was something strange, and when the figure passed me, turning its face right upon me, I saw the face, sir.”
Old Matthew’s manner was so peculiar, his pause so impressive, that Mr. Bourne could only