"But you must say it, Hetty; you have something more to tell me, or you wouldn't have taken all this trouble to wait by the roadside on the chance of my passing. What is it? Out with it now, like a good girl." "May I walk along a little bit with you, Mr. Robert?" "You may as far as the next corner. There our roads part, and you must go home." Hetty shivered. She gave the Squire another furtive and undecided glance. "Shall I tell him?" she whispered to herself. Awdrey glanced at her, and spoke impatiently. "Come, Hetty; remember I'm waiting to hear your story. Out with it now, be quick about it." "I was out last night, sir." "You were out--when? Not after I saw you home?" "Yes, sir." Hetty choked again. "It was after ten o'clock." "You did very wrong. Were you out alone?" "Yes, sir. I--I followed Mr. Frere on to the Plain." "You did?" said Awdrey. "Is that fact known? Did you see anything?" "Yes, sir." "Then why in the name of Heaven didn't you come up to the Court this morning and tell my father. Your testimony may be most important. Think of the position of that poor unfortunate young Everett." "No, sir, I don't think of it." "What do you mean, girl?" "Let me tell you my story, Mr. Awdrey. If it is nothing to you--it is nothing. You will soon know if it is nothing or not. I had a quarrel with Mr. Frere last night. Nobody was by; Mr. Frere came into Aunt's parlor and he spoke to me very angrily, and I--I told him something which made him wild." "What was that?" Hetty gave a shy glance up at the young Squire; his face looked hard, his lips were firmly set. He and she were walking on the same road, but he kept as far from her side as possible. "I will not tell him--at least I will not tell him yet," she said to herself. "I think I won't say, sir," she replied. "What we talked about was Mr. Frere's business and mine. He asked me if I loved another man better than him, and I--I said that I did, sir." "I thought as much," reflected Awdrey; "Everett is the favored one. If this fact is known it will go against the poor fellow." "Well, Hetty," he interrupted, "it's my duty to tell you that you behaved very badly, and are in a great measure responsible for the awful tragedy that has occurred. There, poor child, don't cry. Heaven knows, I don't wish to add to your trouble; but see, we have reached the cross-roads where we are to part, and you have not yet told me what you saw when you went out."