The directness of the question had a disconcerting effect on Mr. Corrie. “Maybe you could guess,” he mumbled at last. Kitty ignored the invitation. “Ye’d best tell her, Rachel,” said Mr. Corrie. “Mr. Symington is anxious to marry ye,” the woman said in little more than a whisper. Without haste Kitty got up and moved to the door. Turning there, she faced them both. Her voice was clear and steady— “I would not marry Mr. Symington for—for twenty thousand pounds.” The man sprang to his feet, but she was gone, the door closed behind her. “Almighty!” he gasped, sinking back into his chair. “What’s wrong wi’ ye?” cried his sister. “I warned ye she would never consent.” “She’ll consent yet!” he said, with a suppressed oath. “But—but what made her name twenty thousand pounds?” * * * * * It was nearly an hour later when Colin reached his father’s house. Hayward Senior was not precisely a heartless man, but he was totally without imagination. Seated—one dares to say “posed”—at an extremely orderly writing-table in his fine old library—he received his youngest son with a stern look and motioned him to be seated. He was in evening dress, and you would never have taken him for anything but a gentleman—in the narrow sense of the word. “You are late,” he said presently. “Where have you been?” “Walking about. It’s a lovely night.” Mr. Hayward smiled bitterly. “Were you alone?” “Most of the time.” Colin looked at his father. “I met Miss Carstairs, and we talked for a little while.” “Who on earth is Miss Carstairs?” Mr. Hayward did not wait for an answer to his ironic question. “You mean the young woman in the local post-office, I presume; the young woman, in fact, with whom your wretched philanderings—” “That’s enough, father!” The young man rose quickly. “Let us leave Miss Carstairs out of—” “Well, I trust you have informed her as to your income and prospects.” “Why should I do that?” “Usual thing in the circumstances—is it not?” “I don’t understand you. What circumstances?” “Tut!” exclaimed Mr. Hayward, “don’t you intend to marry the grocer’s daughter—beg her pardon—niece—” Colin barely restrained the fury that paled his face. “You may take my word for it,” he said, “that Miss Carstair’s certainly does not intend to marry me.” “Really! She must be a generous young person to give her kisses for nothing.” There was an ugly silence. The son took a step forward, his hands clenched at his sides. “Since when,” he asked at length, “have you been employing a private detective?” A dull flush overran the older man’s countenance. “Be careful! The information was not sought by me.” “Who gave it?”