"Not to-night. I have only just seen Anna home from Mrs. Ashley's; and Mr. Lynn has gone out to supper." He turned to leave the room with the microscope, but Gar was looking at the fossils and asked the loan of it. A few minutes, and William finally went out. Patience came to the door, in answer to his knock. She thanked him for the microscope and stood a minute or two chatting. Patience was fond of a gossip; there was no denying it. "Will thee not walk in?" "Not now," he said, turning away. "Good night, Patience." "Good night to thee. Thee send in Anna, please. She is having a pretty long talk with thy mother." William was at a loss. "I saw Anna in from Mr. Ashley's." "She did but ask whether her father was home, and then ran through the house," replied Patience. "She had a message for thy mother, she said, from Margaret Ashley." "Mrs. Ashley does not send messages to my mother," returned William, in some wonder. "They have no acquaintance with each other--beyond a bow, in passing." "She must have sent her one to-night--why else should the child go in to deliver it?" persisted Patience. "Not but that Anna is always running into thy house at nights. I fear she must trouble thy mother at her class." "She never stays long enough for that," replied William. "When she does come in--and it is not often--she just opens the door; 'How dost thee, friend Jane Halliburton?' and out again." "Then thee can know nothing about it, William. I tell thee she never stays less than an hour, and she is always there. I say to her that one of these evenings thy mother may likely be hinting to her that her room will be more acceptable than her company. Thee send her home now, please." William turned away. Curious thoughts were passing through his mind. That Anna did not go in, in the frequent manner Patience intimated; that she rarely stayed above a minute or two, he knew. He knew--at least, he felt perfectly sure--that Anna was not at his house now; had not been there. And yet Patience said "Send her home." "Has Anna been here?" he asked when he went in. "Anna? No." Not just that moment, to draw observation, but presently, William left the room, and went into the garden at the back. A very unpleasant suspicion had arisen in his mind. It might not have occurred to him, but for certain glances which he had observed pass that evening between Herbert Dare and Anna--glances of confidence--as if they had a private mutual understanding on some point or other. He had not understood them then: he very much feared he was about to understand them now. Opening the gate leading to the field at the back, commonly called Atterly's Field, he looked cautiously around. For a moment or two he could see nothing. The hedge was thick on either side, and no living being appeared to be beneath its shade. But he saw farther when his eyes became accustomed to the obscurity.