In the circle of light she saw—and Jerry slinking along the side of the fence saw also—a pale, thin face with a wild look on it. The hair was long and matted, there was a scrubby growth on the chin, and the eyes were sunken for want of food. Still it was Bernard's face, and but that she had seen him on that very afternoon, she would have been deceived, until she had made a closer acquaintance with the tramp. But Alice, having heard the story of Mrs. Gilroy's son, knew at once that this miserable creature was Michael. He was representing himself to her as Bernard, and, mindful of Durham's advice, after the first start of alarm she determined to treat him as though she believed he was her lover.
"Can you get to your feet?" she said, touching him, although her soul shuddered within her when she thought what the man had done.
"Yes," said Michael, hoarsely, and tried to rise.
She assisted him to his feet but his weight almost made her sink. "I must get the servants," said she, trying to disengage herself.
"No! no!" said the man in a voice of hoarse terror. "They will give me up. Remember what I have done."
Alice did remember indeed, and shuddered again. But it was needful for the clearing of Bernard that she should carry on the comedy so as to detain the man. A word from her, that she knew who he really was, and he would fly at once—when all chance of saving Gore would be at an end. Therefore she half led, half dragged him round the corner of the house in the driving rain. Jerry waited till the two disappeared and the last gleam of the lantern vanished. Then he went back to the kitchen unconcernedly.
"Where have you been?" asked James, sternly.
"Looking to see if the poultry gate was all right," said Jerry. "You see, Mr. James, a tramp might come in there."
"It was your duty to shut it."
"I have shut it," said Jerry, with assumed sulkiness.