“I can’t understand you. Either this unhappy man is mad, in which case he certainly ought not to come out at all, now more than at any other time, or he is not mad, in which case it is very wicked of Mr. Bradfield to shut him up, and very wicked of you to be quiet about it, and very silly of Mr. Richard himself not to get away when he can.” “Hush, ma’am, pray don’t speak so loud; you wouldn’t if you knew the harm you might be doing the poor gentleman by it. Mr. Richard’s mad, and he’s not mad, and that’s the truth. You can see for yourself there’s something wrong with him,” he went on, looking into the young lady’s face, with an expression of some doubt and curiosity. “He’s reasonable enough in many ways, as I told you before. He’s as mad as a hatter in his likes and dislikes. It’s by his liking for you, ma’am, that I’m keeping him in order. But he hates Mr. Bradfield so much that if I were to allow him to meet my master alone, I wouldn’t give sixpence for Mr. Bradfield’s chances of getting away from him alive.” The night air was clear and still, and keen with frost. The great evergreen oaks above them were lightly powdered with snow, which there was not even a breath of wind to shake off. For a moment after Stelfox had uttered these words there was a dead, silent calm, which increased the dread roused by the man’s words in poor Chris. Then, from the north side of the house, there came suddenly, piercing their ears, a ringing cry of “Help--help!” Then there came a crash, the sound of a heavy fall, and then again perfect stillness. CHAPTER XXIII. AN AWKWARD QUESTION. When the ladies left the dining-room, a spirit very different from the kindly geniality, conventionally supposed to belong to the Christmas season, reigned over the revels there. Alfred Marrable was, under the influence of the best dinner he had tasted for a long time, merry enough and to spare; while Donald also found happiness in French plums and champagne. But a spirit of mischief looked out of Mr. Graham-Shute’s grey eyes, while John Bradfield himself sat on thorns. For Marrable would take no hint to be more reserved. As he would have expressed his feelings had he been asked, this child of misfortune was, for once in a way, enjoying himself, and he did not mean to let his enjoyment be interfered with. So, having got a sympathetic ear, as he thought, into which to pour his troubles, he maundered on about the old times to his heart’s content; for John Bradfield, who knew how obstinate his cousin could be, and how maliciously bent he was on encouraging Marrable, dared not bring worse upon himself by active interference.