"Of course not. No one knows but we three. I told Kate I had slipped over the quarry accidentally—so I had, in a way. I said you might be coming in to-night to talk over your worries, because I guessed you would rush off here to blurt out what had happened. I know you to a hair's-breadth, Gabriel, you see. Make your mind easy on that score, old chap."
"I shall tell her," said the preacher, quietly.
"Tell her? You'll do nothing of the kind! Nay, Gabriel, there is a limit. Once let you do this, and the next thing you will be standing on the churchyard steps to admit all Marshcotes to the secret."
"Your wife must know," persisted Gabriel.
Greta stole a look at him; and dearly she loved that rugged light of determination in his face—the face that had once seemed plain to her.
So absorbed were they in their own affairs that they had not noted the figure standing in the doorway. It was Kate, her hair tumbled about her nightgown, her bare feet heedless of the cold oak on which they were resting.
"Gabriel Hirst," she said, "was it you who sent him over the quarry-edge?"
The preacher tried to look her in the face, and failed; tried to speak, but his throat was dry. Kate repeated her question, in the same deep, relentless tone.
"It was," whispered Gabriel, hoarsely.