"Know him!" said she in tones of hardly suppressed indignation. "It is he who is responsible for my being caught in this--this annoying predicament." At something in the way the lady said that, Varney unconsciously chipped twenty years off her age and conceded that she might be no more than thirty-two. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said with a laugh. "I should say that Mr. Hare has already had quite enough troubles for one night." "Oh--then you have seen him this evening?" "I had the pleasure of meeting him on the square not half an hour ago." Each waited for the other to say more; and it was the lady who yielded. She went on hesitatingly, yet somehow as if she were not unwilling to justify herself to this stranger in the curious position in which she found herself. "It--is very strange--and unlike him," she said doubtfully. "He was to call for me--at quarter past seven--and take me home. I was at the seamstress's, perhaps quarter of a mile up the road. I waited and waited--and then--Oh--what was that, do you know?" "Only this old floor cracking. Don't flatter it by noticing. How odd to find, meeting in this way, that we are both searching for the same man. Isn't it?" "It--seems to me even odder to find that he is not searching for me." She was sitting, so he judged from the sound, about fifteen feet away. There was coldness in her voice as she spoke of the candidate. Varney felt sorry for that young man when he next held converse with her. From her voice he had also gathered that the dark rather frightened her, and that the presence of an unknown man had not allayed her uneasiness; though something of her reserve had vanished, he thought, when she found that the intruder knew Mr. Hare. "Oh, but he was--is!" he cried encouragingly. "I'm positive that he's searching for you at this minute. Why, of course--certainly! That would explain the whole thing." Sitting damply on the dark stairway, he told of J. Pinkney Hare's evidently impromptu experiences in the public square, which had undoubtedly knocked from his mind all memory of his engagement at the seamstress's; and of the sudden recollection of it, which, there could be no question, was what had sent him and his new friend bursting out of the house and tearing for dear life up the road. "I'll bet," said he, "that not a minute after you turned into shelter, they raced by here after you. Now they're kicking their heels at the sewing-lady's, probably soaked through, and wild to know if you got home safely. Oh, he's being punished for his sins, never fear." "I--am sorry for your friend," her voice replied. "And I believe that I forgive Mr. Hare--now that I know what detained him. I think I must have heard them go by--just after I got in. Once I was sure I heard voices, but, of course, I was expecting Mr. Hare to be alone." "Ha!" thought Varney. "A Hunston romance!"