Eustace was taken aback at her unexpected words. Not even to Cleer had he ever hinted in any way at the strange disclosure Walter Tyrrel made to him that first day at Penmorgan. He hesitated how to answer her without betraying his friend's secret. At last he said, as calmly as he could, "I guessed, to tell you the truth, there was some cause of quarrel. I'll do my very best to keep Tyrrel out of the way, Mrs. Trevennack, as you wish it. But I'm afraid he won't be going down from town for some time to come, for he told me only to-day he had business at his lawyer's, in Victoria Street, Westminster, which might keep him here a fortnight. Indeed, I rather doubt whether he'll care to go down again until he knows for certain, one way or the other, about the Wharfedale Viaduct." Mrs. Trevennack sank back in her chair, very pale and wan. "Oh, what shall we do if they meet?" she cried, wringing her hands in despair. "What shall we do if they meet? This is more than I can endure. Eustace, Eustace, I shall break down. My burden's too heavy for me!" The young man leant over her like a son. "Mrs. Trevennack," he said, gently, smoothing her silvery white hair with sympathetic fingers, "I think I can keep them apart. I'll speak seriously to Tyrrel about it. He's a very good fellow, and he'll do anything I ask of him. I'm sure he'll try to avoid falling in with your husband. He's my kindest of friends; and he'd cut off his hand to serve me." One word of sympathy brought tears into Mrs. Trevennack's eyes. She looked up through them, and took the young man's hand in hers. "It was HE who spoke to Erasmus Walker, I suppose," she murmured, slowly. And Eustace, nodding assent, answered in a low voice, "It was he, Mrs. Trevennack. He's a dear good fellow." The orphaned mother clasped her hands. This was too, too much. And Michael, if the fit came upon him, would strangle that young man, who was doing his best after all for Cleer and Eustace! But that night in his bed Trevennack lay awake, chuckling grimly to himself in an access of mad triumph. He fancied he was fighting his familiar foe, on a tall Cornish peak, in archangelic fashion; and he had vanquished his enemy, and was trampling on him furiously. But the face of the fallen seraph was not the face of Michael Angelo's Satan, as he oftenest figured it--for Michael Angelo, his namesake, was one of Trevennack's very chiefest admirations;--it was the face of Walter Tyrrel, who killed his dear boy, writhing horribly in the dust, and crying for mercy beneath him. CHAPTER XIV. AT ARM'S LENGTH.