The news was the principal topic of conversation through the day, and the comments made were numerous and varied. The most general opinions were that Ffrench was in a "tight place," or had "getten some crank i' hond." "He's noan fond enow o' th' place to ha' coom back fur nowt," said Floxham. "He's a bit harder up than common, that's it." In the course of the morning Haworth came in. Murdoch was struck with his unsettled and restless air; he came in awkwardly, and looking as if he had something to say, but though he loitered about some time, he did not say it. "Come up to the house to-night," he broke out at last. "I want company." It occurred to Murdoch that he wished to say more, but, after lingering for a few minutes, he went away. As he crossed the threshold, however, he paused uneasily. "I say," he said, "Ffrench has come back." "So I heard," Murdoch answered. When he presented himself at the house in the evening, Haworth was alone as usual. Wines were on the table, and he seemed to have drunk deeply. He was flushed, and showed still the touch of uneasiness and excitement he had betrayed in the morning. "I'm glad you've come," he said. "I'm out of sorts--or something." He ended with a short laugh, and turned about to pour out a glass of wine. In doing so his hand trembled so that a few drops fell upon it. He shook them off angrily. "What's up with me?" he said. He drained the glass at a draught, and filled it again. "I saw Ffrench to-day," he said. "I saw them both." "Both!" repeated Murdoch, wondering at him. "Yes. She is with him." "She!" and then remembering the episode of the handkerchief, he added, rather slowly, "You mean Miss Ffrench?" Haworth nodded. He was pushing his glass to and fro with shaking hands, his voice was hoarse and uncertain. "I passed the carriage on the road," he said, "and Ffrench stopped it to speak to me. He's not much altered. I never saw her before. She's a woman now--and a handsome woman, by George!" The last words broke from him as if he could not control them. He looked up at Murdoch, and as their eyes met he seemed to let himself loose. "I may as well make a clean breast of it," he said. "I'm--I'm hard hit. I'm hard hit." Murdoch flinched. He would rather not have heard the rest. He had had emotion enough during the last few days, and this was of a kind so novel that he was overwhelmed by it. But Haworth went on. "It's a queer thing," he said. "I can't quite make it out. I--I feel as if I must talk--about it--and yet there's naught to say. I've seen a woman that's--that's taken hold on me." He passed his hands across his lips, which were parched and stiff.