“May be, may be,” the runner answered lightly. “I don’t say that that is not so. But it is just when a man has given up all thought of a thing that he thinks of it the most, Mr. Sutton. Anyway, there is the stone, and there is the post, and I’ll ask you plain for whom it is meant, if it is not meant for Walterson?”

Mr. Sutton nodded. But his thoughts were still engaged with Captain Clyne’s feelings. The more he considered the point the more inclined he was to think that the runner was right. Clyne’s insistence on the girl’s innocence, the extreme bitterness that had once or twice broken through his reticence, and an unusual restlessness of manner when he had made the remarkable proposal that Mr. Sutton should take his place, all pointed that way. And this being so, it was strange how the suspicion sharpened the chaplain’s keenness to win the prize. If she had still so great a value in the eyes of his patron, how enviable would he be if by hook or crook he could gain her! How very enviable! And was it not for her own good that he should gain her; even if he compassed his end by a little manœuvring, by stooping a little, by spying a little? Ay, even, it might be, by frightening her a little. In love, as in war, all was fair, and if he did not love her he desired her. She was so desirable, so very desirable, he might be forgiven somewhat if he stooped to conquer: seeing that if he failed this dangerous man held her in his power.

So when Bishop asked for the second time, “Will you help me to keep an eye on her? You can do it more easily than I can,” he was ready with his answer, though he blushed a little.

“I will stay here and note who passes,” he replied. “Yes, I will do that.”

“You can do it with less risk of notice than I can,” the officer answered. “And I must get back and keep her in view. It is just possible that this is a ruse, and that the man we want is the other way.”

“I will remain,” said Mr. Sutton curtly. And he stayed. But he was so taken up with this new view of his patron’s feelings that though Bess Hinkson rowed along the shore before his eyes, and looked hard at him, he never saw her.

CHAPTER XVI
A NIGHT ADVENTURE

Henrietta sat and listened to the various sounds which told of a household on its way to bed; and she held her courage with both hands. Slip-shod feet moved along the passages, sleepy voices bade good-night, distant doors closed sharply. And still, when she thought all had retired, the clatter of pot or pan in the far-off offices proclaimed a belated worker. And she had to wait and listen and count the pulsations of her heart.

The two wax candles, snuff them as she might, cast but a dull and melancholy light. The clock ticked in the silence of the room with appalling clearness. Her own movements, when she crept to the door to listen, scared her by their stealthiness. It seemed to her that the least of the sounds she made must proclaim her vigil. One moment she trembled lest the late burning of her light arouse suspicion; the next lest the cloak which she had brought in and cast across a chair should have put some one on the alert. Or she tormented herself with the fancy that the snow with which the evening sky had been heavy would fall before she started and betray her footsteps.

Of one thing she tried not to think. She would not dwell on what might happen at the meeting-place. She felt that if she let her thoughts run on that, she would turn coward, she would not go. And one thing at a time, she told herself. There lay her cloak, the window was not three paces from her, the chair which she meant to use stood by the door. In three minutes she could be outside, in half an hour she might be back. But in the meantime, the room was lonesome and creepy, the creak of a board made her start, the fall of the wood-ash stopped her breath. Like many engaged in secret deeds she made her own mystery and trembled at it.