But Johnston had been drinking; yet, even though backed by a certain amount of "Dutch courage," he deemed it advisable to withdraw a few paces. "Would ye murrder me--too?" he yelled. Roland still controlled himself with an effort little short of superhuman, but his face was white and icy. "Go," he said. "You are discharged." "Dischairged!" echoed Johnston sneeringly, for he had backed away to a safe distance. "Dischairged, am I? I'll have the law on ye if ye assault me, but it's a noose ye'll come to for this day's wurrk." And with this parting shot, he took himself off. Olive was terribly alarmed and disturbed. The violence of the incident, and the dark and mysterious threats had upset her not a little. Tenderly, Roland set to work to soothe her. "My darling, tell me all about it." She told him--how Johnston had accosted her directly she entered the place, asking her to use her influence to get his wages raised and also to procure a place for his son, who, by the way, was an out-and-out young rascal. She could see that the man had been drinking, and so had answered him quietly at first. Then his manner had become insolent and threatening, and he had hinted at terrible mischief which it was in his power to work his employer in the event of refusal. "It was only talk, Roland, wasn't it?" she urged, clinging to him. "Darling, tell me that he has no power to harm you. He has not--has he?" As a matter of fact the threat had momentarily struck him with a pang of the old alarm. Momentarily, because, invoking reason to his aid, he decided that the rascally Scot had got his suspicions at second-hand from Gipsy Steve when the precious pair were in their cups. The suspicions of these two scoundrels were harmless. Only if he flinched might they become dangerous. So he had acted with decision, as we have seen. "Not the slightest?" he answered reassuringly. "If he has I'll give him every opportunity of putting it to the test. Off he goes this very evening, bag and baggage." CHAPTER FORTY. THE BAN AGAIN. The Cranston party had organised a picnic to Durnley Castle. It was May--bright, flowery, laughing May--neither spring nor summer, but something of both. The sun's rays were not too powerful this glorious afternoon, as with a delicious warmth they poured down upon the fields studded with golden buttercups and delicate bluebells, and distilled the sweet scent from blossoming hawthorn hedges, where the linnet and grey-backed shrike sat patiently upon their eggs, secure in the recesses of their thorny covert. Fair to the eye were the velvety coppices, with their newly-donned mantles of bright green, whence issued the soft coo of the turtle-dove, and the flap of the cushat's wing among the branches. Then, too, how light-hearted the joyous, oft-repeated note of the cuckoo, sounding over the pleasant landscape!