"You know a good deal about him," Mr. Winton could not help saying. "What about the young fellow himself—his character?" "There is no particular fault to be found. It is simply a question of his connections. I cannot give you particulars. I can only advise you—urgently—to act with decision." "He will be here before we can take any steps." "Apparently so. You will have to make him understand that nothing can come of it. I suppose you will keep this—episode—to yourselves." "As far as possible," the Rector began, and his wife broke in— "But Mrs. Brutt—" "Does she know?" "She has found it out somehow. She wrote to warn us." The Squire stood up thoughtfully. "Perhaps I may be able to give her a hint. Yes, I will remember. I have to see her on a small piece of business. It is desirable that people should not be set talking. Good-bye. I must be off. You will let me know how things turn out." "Will you not stay and see Doris?" asked Mrs. Winton, surprised at so early a move. "I think not now. I have a good deal to do. Another day." They gazed after him as he went heavily down the garden. He seemed all at once aged and altered, almost feeble. "Something is wrong with the Squire," Mrs. Winton remarked. The Rector made no comment. Five minutes later he stood at his study-table, reading anew Maurice's letter. He liked the tone of it, the manly frankness, the ardent warmth, the devotion to his child. His eyes rested, by no means for the first time, on the signature,—"Richard Raye Maurice." "I don't understand that," he muttered. The puzzle had been in his mind ever since receiving the sheet. He wondered at his wife's having failed to remark the same. Then he recalled that the Squire's invariable signature was—"Richard R. Stirling." Few knew what the R. stood for; perhaps almost no one in the place except himself. CHAPTER XXXI The Squire's Dark Hour WALKING heavily, like an old man, Mr. Stirling passed through the Rectory garden, took the path which led across a small triangular field and entered the churchyard. A very quiet spot; at this hour entirely deserted. The blow, long dreaded, had fallen at last. Difficulties, warded off through years, had suddenly arisen like granite walls, threatening to close him in. No way of escape lay open, except through the immediate crushing of Doris's new love-affair. If Maurice were at once and effectually dismissed, things might still go on as they had done. But what if Maurice refused to be summarily dismissed? What if Doris insisted on having her own way? It seemed that the young fellow, after years of extraordinary submission, had at last taken the bit between his teeth. And he might, even if rejected, insist upon further explanations. Strange that the Squire's own action, in trying to get Doris out of the way of the Morrises, should have actually thrown her into contact with Maurice, should have actually brought about this disastrous state of things! Disastrous from his point of view.