John Gore followed the fellow’s lead, amused at the caution that did not intend to offer him the chance of pocketing anything of value in the house. He was left pacing the gravel walks, with his red coat showing up against the green of the grass. John Gore had taken two turns up and down the garden when a girl came out between the pillars of the music-room, and stood gazing at the gentleman’s broad back with the impatient air of one who has been cornered by a stranger. She drew back again, as though waiting her opportunity to cross from the portico to the house without being observed. Her chance came and she seized it, only to discover that the garden door of the house was locked. The man in the red coat turned and came down the path again. He caught sight of the girl standing on the steps, bowed, and lifted his hat to her. “I am afraid you are locked out,” he said. “Oh—” “Your man did not like the look of me, I suppose, and wisely turned the key in the lock. There seems nothing to be pocketed in the garden but a few green peaches.” They were looking straight into each other’s eyes. Who this sturdy, shabby gentleman could be Barbara could not gather for the moment. Nor was she pleased at being left there—at his mercy. “You have forgotten me, Mistress Barbara,” he said. She frowned slightly. “My father, Lord Gore, is here, I believe.” Her eyes flashed suddenly, and she colored. “Oh—you are—” “The boy who pulled your ribbons off—that day—at Sheen. You may remember the incident,” and he bowed. Barbara remembered it. There was a short pause. “You have changed,” she said, curtly, glancing over her shoulder at the glass panel in the door. He passed a hand critically over his chin. “Seemingly, in the heat of adventure. My father’s man took me for a bully. I have been in England about five hours.” They stood regarding each other in silence, the man puzzled by her swarthy, sullen face, the girl conscious of a rush of embittered memories. It was as though something out of the past had risen up before her, something ignorant and unwelcome that might blunder any moment against her sensitive reserve. “I trust that Sir Lionel is hearty as ever?” She seized the handle of the door and shook it. “I wonder where that fool—Miles—” “Pardon me, shall I shout?” Barbara kept one shoulder turned toward him, her face, bleak and white, reflected in the glass panel of the door. “Oh—at last!” There was the sound of a key turning in a lock. She pushed past the man as he opened the door, leaving John Gore wondering what manner of mischief three years had made in a girl’s temper.