Matters had remained in this condition for a couple of months, when, on his way home late one night, Murdoch's attention was arrested by a light burning in the room used by the master of the Works as his office. He stopped in the road to look up at it. He could scarcely, at first, believe the evidence of his senses. The place had been closed and locked hours before, when Haworth had left it with Ffrench, with whom he was to dine. It was nearly midnight, and certainly an unlawful hour for such a light to show itself, but there it burned steadily amid the darkness of the night. "It doesn't seem likely that those who had reason to conceal themselves would set a light _blazing_," Murdoch thought. "But if there's mischief at work there's no time to waste." There was only one thing to do, and he did it, making the best of his way to the spot. The gate was thrown open, and the door of entrance yielded to his hand. Inside, the darkness was profound, but when he found the passage leading to Haworth's room he saw that the door was ajar and that the light still burned. On reaching this door he stopped short. There was no need to go in. It was Haworth himself who was in the room--Haworth, who lay with arms folded on the table, and his head resting upon them. Murdoch turned away, and as he did so the man heard him for the first time. He lifted his head and looked round. "Who's there?" he demanded. There was no help for it. Murdoch pushed the door open and stood before him. "Murdoch," he said. "I saw the light, and it brought me up." Haworth gave him a grudging look. "Come in," he said. "Do you want me?" Murdoch asked. "Aye," he answered, dully, "I think I do." Murdoch stood and looked at him. He did not sit down. A mysterious sense of embarrassment held him in check. "What is wrong?" he asked, in a lowered voice. He hardly knew it for his own. "Wrong?" echoed Haworth. "Naught. I've--been taking leave of the place. That's all." "You have been doing _what_?" said Murdoch. "Taking leave of the place. I've given it up." His visitor uttered a passionate ejaculation. "You are mad!" he said. "Aye," bitterly. "Mad enow." The next instant a strange sound burst from him,--a terrible sound, forced back at its birth. His struggle to suppress it shook him from head to foot; his hands clinched themselves as if each were a vise. Murdoch turned aside. When it was over, and the man raised his face, he was trembling still, and white with a kind of raging shame. "Blast you!" he cried, "if there's ever aught in your face that minds me o' this, I'll--I'll kill you!" This Murdoch did not answer at all. There was enough to say. "You are going to share it with Ffrench?" he said. "Aye, with that fool. He's been at me from the start. Naught would do him but he must have his try at it. Let him. He shall play second fiddle, by the Lord Harry!" He began plucking at some torn scraps of paper, and did not let them rest while he spoke.