The word was like a knife-thrust to the girl. This lewd, red-headed fool to claim the title which belonged to Shameless Wayne! And then she remembered that Wayne’s safety and her own depended, not upon passion, but on coolness now. She turned as Red Ratcliffe loosed his hold, and eyed him very softly. "Cousin," she said, "thou wast wont to prate of thy love for me." "I’ll prove it by and by." "Nay, prove it now—by gentleness. I only ask a moment’s freedom—just to the garden-gate and back again, to cool my feverishness. This house-air stifles me. Cousin, be kind this once, and I will—will love thee for it." "Thou hast fooled me so oft, lass, that it seems the fondest lie is reckoned deep enough to take me now. How far is’t, tell me, from the garden-gate to Marsh?" "Wayne is not at Marsh," she broke in. "Why should I want to go there?" "So thou hast persuaded him to ride to Cranshaw? My thanks for the news, pretty one. The sport speeds better than I hoped for when I found thee returning over-soon from thy errand. Didst meet him by the way, then?" She rued her hastiness; for she saw by Red Ratcliffe’s face that no turn of speech or eye could cozen him; and she had confessed, all for naught, that Shameless Wayne would come to the lyke-wake when they bade him. "Cousin, let me have speech of grandfather," she said, making a last effort. "I—I can explain all to him——" "Doubtless," answered the other grimly. "Old liking is hard to kill, Janet, and I would not trust thee with him—nay, not though he hates thee now. Thou would’st be soft with him, letting thy lashes melt upon thy cheeks. God, yes, I can see thee at thy antics!—A murrain on thee!" he broke off. "Is there so little to be done that I must needs stand chattering here? Follow me, girl." "I will not follow thee," she answered stubbornly. For answer he set his arms about her and half carried, half dragged her to the little room at the bottom of the passage where once he had prisoned Nell Wayne; then pulled the door to and turned the key sharply in the lock. Janet, left to herself, gave way utterly. She had no heart to lift herself from the floor, but sat there, her head bowed upon her knees, and pictured what was so soon to follow in the great hall that lay just behind her prison-chamber. And by and by her mind began to wander idly down strange paths of thought, as she recalled each speech and glance of her grandfather’s at their last meeting. All that had puzzled her in his air grew clear—the touch of remorse, the look of pity that came into his face at parting. For the one moment he had wavered, remembering his love for her; why had she not known, not guessed what he was planning? For then she might have over-ridden his purpose.