“She would have to be told sooner or later,” said Hartley, staring at him, “and it seemed to me better to tell her before Joan came home. I thought Joan would prefer it; and if you had heard Rosa’s comments I think that you’d agree I was right.” The captain scarcely listened. “Well, it’s all over Salthaven by now,” he said, resignedly. He seated himself on the bench with his hands hanging loosely between his knees, and tried to think. In any case he saw himself held up to ridicule, and he had a strong feeling that to tell the truth now would precipitate a crisis between Vyner and his chief clerk. The former would probably make a fairly accurate guess at the circumstances responsible for the rumour, and act accordingly. He glanced at Hartley standing awkwardly before him, and, not without a sense of self-sacrifice, resolved to accept the situation. “Yes; Rosa had to be told,” he said, philosophically. “Fate again; you can’t avoid it.” Hartley took a turn or two up and down the path. “The news came on me like a—like a thunderbolt,” he said, pausing in front of the captain. “I hadn’t the slightest idea of such a thing, and if I say what I think—” “Don’t!” interrupted the captain, warmly. “What’s the good?” “When were you married?” inquired the other. “Where were you married?” “Joan made all the arrangements,” said the captain, rising hastily. “Ask her.” “But—” said the astonished Hartley. “Ask her,” repeated the captain, walking toward the house and flinging the words over his shoulder. “I’m sick of it.” He led the way into the dining-room and, at the other’s invitation, took a seat at the breakfast-table, and sat wondering darkly how he was to get through the two days before he sailed. Hartley, ill at ease, poured him out a cup of coffee and called his attention to the bacon-dish. “I can’t help thinking,” he said, as the captain helped himself and then pushed the dish toward him—“I can’t help thinking that there is something behind all this; that there is some reason for it that I don’t quite understand.” The captain started. “Never mind,” he said, with gruff kindness. “But I do mind,” persisted the other. “I have got an idea that it has been done for the benefit—if you can call it that—of a third person.” The captain eyed him with benevolent concern. “Nonsense,” he said, uneasily. “Nothing of the kind. We never thought of you.” “I wasn’t thinking of myself,” said Hartley, staring; “but I know that Joan was uneasy about you, although she pretended to laugh at it. I feel sure in my own mind that she has done this to save you from Mrs. Chinnery. If it hadn’t—”