A couple of hours later Archie was on his way home. He had left one horse, still disabled, in the judge's stable, and he was riding the other into Brechin, where he would get a fresh one to take him on. Balnillo had persuaded him to leave his belongings where they were until he knew what chance there was of an early return. He had parted from Archie with reluctance. Although the portrait was the old man's principal interest, its maker counted for much with him; for it was some time since his ideas had been made to move as they always moved in Flemington's presence. The judge got much pleasure out of his own curiosity; and the element of the unexpected--that fascinating factor which had been introduced into domestic life--was a continual joy. Balnillo had missed it more than he knew since he had become a completely rural character. Archie saw the Basin of Montrose drop behind him as he rode away with a stir of mixed feelings. The net that Logie had, in all ignorance, spread for him had entangled his feet. He had never conceived a like situation, and it startled him to discover that a difficulty, nowhere touching the tangible, could be so potent, so disastrous. He felt like a man who has been tripped up and who suddenly finds himself on the ground. He had risen and fled. The position had become intolerable. He told himself in his impetuous way that it was more than he could bear; and now, every bit of luck he had turned to account, every precaution he had taken, all the ingenuity he had used to land himself in the hostile camp, were to go for nothing, because some look in his face, some droop of the eyes, had reminded another man of his own past, and had let loose in him an overwhelming impulse to expression. "Remember what I told you yesterday," had been James's last words as Flemington put his foot in the stirrup. "There must be no more challenges." It was that high-coloured flower of his own imagination, the picture of himself in the servants' hall, that had finally accomplished his defeat. How could he betray the man who was ready to share his purse with him? And, putting the matter of the purse aside, his painter's imagination was set alight. The glow of the tulips and the strange house by the winding water, the slim vision of Diane de Montdelys, the gallant background of the Scots Brigade, the grave at Bergen-op-Zoom--these things were like a mirage behind the figure of James. The power of seeing things picturesquely is a gift that can turn into a curse, and that power worked on his emotional and imaginative side now. And furthermore, beyond what might be called the ornamental part of his difficulty, he realized that friendship with James, had he been free to offer or to accept it, would have been a lifelong prize.