"Are you sure you saw any one, Miss Hereford?"
"I am very nearly sure, sir."
"Who was it?"
In truth I could not say, and I was not obliged to avow my suspicions. Mr. Chandos hastened outside, and I remained alone, as timid as could be.
A curious and most unpleasant suspicion was fixing itself upon my mind, dim glimpses of which had been haunting me during tea—that Mr. Edwin Barley's object was me. That it was himself who had been in the pine-walk, and again now at the window, I felt a positive conviction. He must have recognised me; this stealthy intrusion at odd times, seasonable and unseasonable, must be to watch me, to take note of my movements, not of those of the owners of Chandos. But for his motive I searched in vain.
"I cannot see or hear any one about," said Mr. Chandos, when he returned; "all seems to be quite free and still. I fancy you must have been mistaken, Miss Hereford."
I shook my head, but did not care to say much, after the notion that had taken possession of me. Words might lead to deeper questions, and I could not for the world have said that I knew Edwin Barley.
"Possibly you may be a little nervous to-night," he continued, ringing the bell; "and at such times the fancy considers itself at liberty to play us all sorts of tricks. My having told you what I did this morning relating to myself, may have taken hold of your imagination."
"Oh, no; it has not."
"I shall be very sorry to have mentioned it, if it has. Believe me, there's nothing in that to disturb you. When you ran in at tea-time I thought you looked scared. Close the shutters," he added, to the servant, who had appeared in answer to his ring. "And if you will pardon my leaving you alone, Miss Hereford, I will wish you good-night. I am very tired, and I have some writing to do yet."