“There is bad blood between us,” began the elder man, after they had paced on for a short distance side by side in silence. “There is bad blood between us, and I am sorry for it; but it is natural that you should both dislike and distrust me.”
“Was that what you brought me here to say?” Alick inquired.
“No; consider it as my opening sentence,—the stamp with which I have broken the conversational ice; now I can go on. You remember, of course, where you first saw me?”
“It is not likely I should soon forget such a pleasure,” was the reply.
“You are satirical, but I am shot proof,” Mr. Croft remarked; “you recollect, then, that Sunday afternoon in North Kemms’ church, and the girl who kept her eyes fixed so demurely on her prayer-book, which I had afterwards the happiness of restoring to her?”
“And in which you placed a letter,” added Alick.
“And in which I placed one of a series of letters,” amended Mr. Croft; “good—you remember her?”
“As well as I remember you,” was the reply.
“Where is she now?”
The moon sailed out from behind a cloud, as suddenly and sharply Mr. Croft put this question, looking full in Alick’s face while he did so.