Dick looked thoughtful, but not hopeful. Little opportunity as he had had of knowing the world, he guessed that it would require superhuman energy to set the law in motion to make a rich man disgorge for the benefit of a poor one. For he was too ignorant to know that he could attack Capital in the person of Mr. Bradfield, by invoking the great god Labour. It did not occur to him, therefore, that a smart solicitor could have made a fortune both for himself and his client by bringing an action against John Bradfield, the rich man who had oppressed the poor one. “I couldn’t prove it, even if it were true. And I know nothing of the kind,” said he. Then Chris had another inspiration. “You ought to consult a lawyer,” said she promptly. The suggestion was so obviously a good one, that Dick agreed to this. And then their talk began to drift from the realms of fact to the pleasanter paths of feeling and fancy, and was carried on chiefly in whispers, and in sentences which had no beginnings and no endings. CHAPTER XXXIV. MASTER OF THE SITUATION. While John Bradfield still sat in his study, turning over the papers from a locked drawer in his desk, tearing up some, and carefully putting aside others, he heard again the creaking of the gate, and looking out, saw, in the dusk which had now fallen, a figure which seemed familiar to him. It disappeared at once by the lodge, and Mr. Bradfield, after waiting a few minutes in vain watching for its return, rang the bell, and asked whether anyone had come in by the back way during the past few minutes. The servant said he thought not, but he would inquire; and he returned a few moments later to say that no one had come in. Mr. Bradfield did not feel satisfied, although he gave no sign of his dissatisfaction. “I could have sworn it was Stelfox!” said he to himself, as he again looked out of the window. This time he saw another figure, whom there was no mistaking. The blood mounted to his head as he saw that it was Chris Abercarne, who was walking quickly back into the house. He was hard pressed for time, working among the papers with something of the feeling of a fox that burrows in the ground when the hounds are within hearing, but he felt that he must spare a moment to speak to her. Chris was startled by the change which had come upon him since he drove her from the station. She knew of his interview with Dick, and, seen by the light of that knowledge, his face betrayed more than he could guess. The frown on it was not one of anger; it was the harassed, worried frown of a hunted man. And her indignation against him changed in a moment to pity; her face softened. “You have been talking to--Richard, I suppose?” said he shortly, almost rudely, pronouncing the name with an effort. “Yes,” answered Chris gently. “You’re in love with him, or fancy you are, of course?” pursued he harshly. Chris admitted that too. “And you think I’ve ill-treated him, no doubt?”