But Mrs. Coney did not come; old Coney and Tom brought in word that she was not feeling well enough; and the Tanertons only drove up on the stroke of five. As I helped Grace down from the pony-chaise, muffled up to the chin in furs, for the cold was enough to freeze an Icelander's nose off, I told her her aunt was not well enough to come. "Aunt Coney not well enough to come!" returned Grace. "What a pity! Have I time to run in to see her before dinner, Johnny?" "That you've not. You are late, as it is. The Squire has been telling us all that the fish must be in rags already." Grace laughed as she ran in; her husband followed her unwinding the folds of his white woollen comforter. There was a general greeting and much laughter, especially when old Coney told Grace that her cheeks were as purple as his Sunday necktie. In the midst of it Thomas announced dinner. The codfish came up all right, and the oyster sauce was in Molly's best style--made of cream, and plenty of oysters in it. The turkey was fine: the plum-pudding better than good. Hugh and Lena sat at the table; and altogether we had a downright merry dinner. Not a sober face amongst us, except Herbert Tanerton's: as to his face--well, you might have thought he was perpetually saying "For what we are going to receive----" It had struck eight ever so long when the last nut was eaten. "Will you run over with me to my aunt's, Johnny?" whispered Grace as she passed my chair. "I should like to go at once, if you will." So I followed her out of the room. She put her wraps on, and we went trudging across the road in the moonlight, over the crunching snow. Grace's foot went into a soft rut, and she gave a squeal. "I shall have to borrow a shoe whilst this dries," said she. "Do you care to come in, Johnny?" "No, I'll go back. I can run over for you presently." "Don't do that. One of the servants will see me safe across." "All right. Tell Mrs. Coney what a jolly dinner it was. We were all sorry she did not come." Grace went in and shut the door. I was rushing back through our own gate, when some tall fellow glided out of the laurels, and put his hand on my arm. The moonlight fell upon his face and its reddish beard--and, to my intense surprise, I recognized Benjamin Rymer. I knew him then for the man who had been dodging in and out of the shrubs the night but one before. "I beg your pardon," he said. "It is, as I am well aware, a very unusual and unceremonious way of accosting you, or any one else, but I want particularly to speak with you, in private, Mr. Ludlow." "You were here on Sunday night!" "Yes. I saw the Squire and the rest of them go out to church, but I did not see you go, and I was trying to ascertain whether you were at home and alone. Tom Coney's coming in startled me and sent me away."