By this time Olivia and Faradeane had partly ascended the steps, and he had seen them. He stopped suddenly and glared down at them with an expression of angry suspicion and jealousy which rendered his rather good-looking face positively ugly, and a passionate oath leaped from his lips. “This--this is pretty!” he exclaimed, looking between them--for even in his passion he could not face Olivia’s clear, cold eyes, or Faradeane’s calm gaze. “Where have you been, Olivia?” asked the squire, gently. She went up to him and laid her hand on his arm. “I ran down to the lodge to see Bessie, and Mr. Faradeane kindly offered to come back to the house with me, dear,” she said. “Oh, Faradeane, is that you?” he said, coming forward. “How do you do? Thanks for taking care of my little girl; she is rather a runagate,” and he smiled as he held out his hand. Faradeane shook hands with him and then held out his hand to Bartley Bradstone. Bradstone looked for a moment as if he were going to refuse it, and his face went from white to red, but he took the proffered hand at last. “Rather a--a strange coincidence, isn’t it?” he said, breathing hard. “Were you spending the evening at the lodge, Faradeane?” Harold Faradeane looked at him calmly, without the faintest sign of resentment of the insinuation. “No,” he said, “I happened to be passing, and heard Bessie propose to escort Miss Vanley up the avenue, and offered myself as a substitute.” “Oh,” said Bartley Bradstone, with as much of a sneer as he dared display, “which she accepted readily enough, of course?” The crimson flooded Olivia’s face and neck; but Faradeane met his covertly furious face with calm self-possession. “Which Miss Vanley was kind enough to accept, as you say,” he said. “We met with no adventures on the road, and I return her to you safe and unharmed,” and he smiled. “Thanks, thanks; come in, come in, all of you,” said the squire, hurriedly, with a spasm of pain at Bartley Bradstone’s exhibition of temper. Faradeane looked at his watch. “Too late, thanks,” he said, lightly. “Good-night, good-night, Miss Vanley,” and he raised his hat. Then he turned to Bartley Bradstone. “Splendid night for an astronomer, Bradstone.” The other man glanced up at the sky, and then at Faradeane’s calm face. “Eh!” he said. “What do you mean?” Faradeane looked around to see if the squire and Olivia had got indoors and out of hearing, then said: “One word with you, Bradstone.” “Well, what is it?” sullenly. “Walk with me to the lane,” said Faradeane, quietly. Bartley Bradstone hesitated for a second, and his face began to grow pale. “I--I--it’s late, and beastly chilly,” he stammered. Faradeane moved on, and the other man followed as if he had been dragged. When they had gone a couple of hundred yards, Faradeane stopped. “You wish to quarrel with me, Bradstone,” he said, regarding the other with calm intentness.