The two were in the lane behind the church, at seven that same evening. Winifred, on some pretext, had escaped the watchful eyes of Rachel Craik, or fancied that she had, and came hurriedly to the waiting Carshaw. She was all aflutter with expectancy not untinged by fear, she knew not of what. The nights were beginning to darken early, and it was gloomy that evening, for the sky was covered with clouds and a little drizzle was falling. "You are not to think that there is the least hint of impropriety about the matter," Carshaw assured her. "Understand, please, Winifred, that this is no lovers' meeting, but a business one, on which your whole future life depends. You cannot suppose that I have followed you to Fairfield for nothing." "How could you possibly know that I was here?" "From the police." "The police _again_? What a strange thing!" "Yes, a strange thing, and yet not so strange. They are keenly interested in you and your movements, for your good. And I, of course, still more so." "You are wonderfully good to care. But, tell me quickly, I cannot stay ten minutes. I think my aunt suspects something. She already knows about the note dropped to-day into my lap." "And about the boy in the fit. Does she suspect that, too?" "What, was that a ruse? Good gracious, how artful you must be! I'm afraid of you--" "Endlessly artful for your sake, Winifred." "You are kind. But tell me quickly." "Winifred, you are in danger, from which there is only one way of escape for you--namely, absolute trust in me. Pray understand that the dream in which you heard some one say, 'She must be taken away from New York' was no dream. You are here in order to be taken. This may be the first stage of a long journey. Understand also that there is no bond of duty which forces you to go against your will, for the shrewdest men in the New York police have reason to think you are not who you imagine you are, and that the woman you call your aunt is no relative of yours." "What reason have they?" asked Winifred. "I don't care--I don't know, they have not told me. But I believe them, and I want you to believe me. The persons who have charge of your destiny are not normal persons--more or less they have done, or are connected with wrong. There is no doubt about that. The police know it, though they cannot yet drag that wrong into the light. Do you credit what I say?" "It is all very strange." "It is _true_. That is the point. Have you, by the way, ever seen a man called Voles?" "Voles? No." "Yet that man at this moment is somewhere near you. He came in the same train with you from New York. He is always near you. He is the most intimate associate of your aunt. Think now, and tell me whether it is not a disturbing thing that you never saw this man face to face?" "Most disturbing, if what you say is so."