Both were talking, as it were, to fill up the time until they were ready for attack and defence on the subject which was occupying the minds of both. Then, as Chris moved as if to go on her way upstairs, Mr. Bradfield came out of his study, and shut the door. “I’ve bought a new picture,” said he, as he invited her by gesture to accompany him to the dining-room, “by one of these French fellows. Very high art; gives one the creeps.” Before they stood in front of the picture, which was one of those heart-breaking war-pictures, tired soldiers trudging along under grey, wet skies, which form part of the legacy of the Franco-Prussian war, each knew that the tussle was coming. “You take an encounter with a madman very philosophically, Miss Christina,” said he. “Not more philosophically than you did, Mr. Bradfield, when you looked into the barn, and left me there with him!” cried she. He was rather disconcerted by this retort. “Oh--er--well,” he began, “you see, I could not quite make out, from where I was, who was with him, and----” “And you knew, of course, what I did not, that he would not do me any harm.” Mr. Bradfield seemed to find this difficult to answer. It was not until after a minute’s reflection of an apparently unpleasant kind that he said, rather shortly: “I could see that he was not in one of his frenzied fits, and I thought it best to go away quickly while the quiet mood lasted, and send Stelfox, who knows how to manage him. Surely you don’t suppose I should have left you alone with him if I had thought it likely he would do you any harm?” “No, I don’t suppose so. Only----” “Only what?” “I can hardly believe that he is ever so very dangerous. I can’t help thinking he would be better if he were allowed to come out sometimes and see people. Do you know, I think I should go mad myself if I lived in two rooms, and never saw anybody but Stelfox!” Chris hurried out this speech hastily, regardless of the evident fact that the subject was extremely distasteful to Mr. Bradfield, who walked up and down the room impatiently, with his hands behind him, and repeatedly looked at his watch, as if he could hardly spare the time to listen to such nonsense. When she had finished, he said, shortly: “I am afraid you must allow me to know best. My knowledge of him dates from many years back, you see, while yours is of the slightest possible kind. But you yourself saw him in one of his fits, when he threw something at you through the window. Do you want better proof than that of his dangerous temper? And do you think a person who is born without intelligence enough to learn to speak is fit to be trusted among other human beings?” “Never learned to speak!” echoed Chris, doubtfully. “Stelfox said it was an African language he talked!” Angry as he was, Mr. Bradfield burst into an uncontrollable laugh at this. Then, at once recovering his gravity, he said quickly: