“I couldn’t rightly say,” answered the landlord slowly; “I don’t hold for walkin’ myself, and besides I ain’t been here long.” “No! I thought you’d have been born here.” “Lord, no; what made you think that, sir? I’ve been here six months come Michaelmas; ’ad a place down Melbury way before that, that’s where I was bred.” Conversation flourished on similarly simple lines for some time and presently from the clock in the village church midnight boomed out slowly. “Twelve o’clock!” exclaimed the landlord. “Time I was abed. Wunnerful how time goes when you get talkin’. If you ain’t a-comin’ in just yet, sir, will you have the kindness to lock this door and put out the lamp?” “With pleasure,” replied Humblethorne. “I shall just finish this pipe and then I shall be turning in, too.” The continued absence of the stranger had passed out of mind, and Humblethorne had just knocked out the pipe he always declared was the best of the whole day and turned to obey the injunction of the landlord, when he heard hurried steps in the lane, and in another minute the surly stranger came into the little ring of light cast by the lamp. He shot a keen glance of apparent resentment at the sight of Humblethorne standing with one hand on the door, brushed past him without a word, passed through and closed the door quickly and with unnecessary force behind him. “Quite the gentleman,” murmured Humblethorne as he reopened it; “my gratitude for not being locked out is amazing. Now I should say,” he added thoughtfully as he lit his candle and put the light out, “that that young fellow was following a true instinct in taking a dislike to me—but it’s no concern of mine.” With which piece of philosophy he went to bed. CHAPTER II Philip and Evelyn Earlier on the same evening, about six o’clock to be more exact, two young girls were playing an unequal set of tennis up at the Towers. They were nearly of an age, between twenty-three and twenty-four, but there was almost as much difference in their appearance as there certainly was in their play. Celia Penterton was very pretty, fair of complexion, slender in figure and delicate both in feature and physique, with a grace in every movement which was quite unavailing to impart accuracy to her strokes; she was getting badly beaten by her friend, Evelyn Temple, who had a transparent vivacity and charm about her which owed nothing to beauty and was playing with an easy skill sufficient for victory without exertion. She looked a picture of mental and bodily health as she stood on the court, laughing, full of attraction in the simple white dress which set off the glow of her cheeks, and swung her racket gaily into the air to mark the end of the game. “Play up, Celia!” she cried. “You aren’t having a look in.” “I know; it’s hopeless playing against you, Evie,” answered Celia; “and I’m worse than usual to-day, and besides, I am so hot.” “D’you want to go on?” “Not much; I can’t give you a decent game.”