"Mr. Varney," said Hammerton, with swift acuteness, "maybe I'm not as bad a fellow as you think. Why can't you trust me with this story--of what brought you to Hunston, and what made you run away this morning and hide? If it's really something that newspapers haven't got anything to do with, I'll go straight back to the office and make them leave you alone. Oh, I have enough influence to do it, all right! And if it's something different and--well, a little unusual, I'll promise to put you in the best light possible. Why don't you trust me with it?" "Well," said Varney with a stormy smile, "suppose I do, then!" "Good!" cried Hammerton cordially, observing him, however, with some intentness. "Honestly, it's the very best thing you could do." Varney rested upon the back of his chair again and stood staring down at the reporter for some time in silence. "Mr. Hammerton," he began presently, "I know that the great majority of newspaper men are fair and honorable and absolutely trustworthy. I know that it is a part of their capital to be able to keep a secret as well as to print one. For this reason, I have upon reflection decided to confide--certain facts to you, feeling sure that they will never go any further--" "Of course, Mr. Varney," the reporter interrupted, "you understand that I can't make any promises in advance." "Let the risk be mine," said Varney. "I am certain that when you have heard what I have to tell you, you will report to your papers that my 'mysterious errand' turns out to be simply a matter of personal and private business, with which the public has no concern, and whose publication at this time would hopelessly ruin it. Mr. Hammerton, I came to Hunston to see Miss Mary Carstairs." A gleam came into Hammerton's eye. Varney, watching that observant feature, knew that no detail of his story, or of his manner in telling it, would escape a most critical scrutiny.