Seth did not intend his meaning to be mistaken, and his tone added force to his words. The gentleman's manner was so overbearing, that the commoner man's independent spirit was roused. "I am the master of this place. This is a private road; you have committed a trespass." "Then the sooner I repair an error unintentionally committed, the better for myself. If I had known this road was private I should not have entered it." "The notice-board is large, and the words plain. You have been good enough to inform me that you can read." He pointed to a board at the beginning of the road which had escaped Seth's notice, on which was painted in bold letters, "Trespassers will be prosecuted." Seth bit his lip as he saw the trap into which he had fallen. "The hedge which protects the road," continued the gentleman, "has been newly broken." "Not by me," said Seth, somewhat uneasy for the children's sake. "It is not to be expected that you would admit it. But for your insolence towards the lady and myself, I should be disposed to overlook the trespass; as it is I am in doubt. Where do you come from?" "From London." "A London tramp--a vagrant." "No tramp or vagrant," said Seth indignantly; "an honest man bringing his children into the country in search of health." "I understand they are not your children." "They are mine by adoption." "Are their parents living?" "This child's mother--don't be frightened, Sally--lives in the country, and is unable to offer her a home. So I take care of her." "A modern Quixote," said the gentleman, with a sneer. "And this child"--once more he looked at the Duchess, whose eyes were raised to his--"and this child----" The imploring gaze of the Duchess appeared to disconcert him, and the sentence remained unfinished. A singular silence followed, during which they all looked at the gentleman, whose self-possession had suddenly deserted him. Aroused to the fact that general attention was fixed upon him, he broke the silence, with curious pauses between his words. "I was asking whether these children are sisters?" "They are not," replied Seth. "In any way related?" "Not to my knowledge." "Are her parents living?" For the second time during the interview a falsehood rested on Seth's lips, and for the second time he refused to utter it. "I do not know," he replied. "What is it you say?" "I do not know whether her parents are living." "A born lady," muttered the gipsy, seeing her chance; "a born lady--fit to be a Duchess--_is_ one, or I can't read the stars." Seth turned a startled look upon the gipsy, saying, "You are a clever witch, wherever you have got your information." Then to the gentleman, "Have you anything more to ask me?" "Nothing," was the reply, with a contradiction almost in the same breath: "In what part of London did you say you live?" as though the question had been already asked and answered. "In the east." "And you rest to-night?" "At The World's End, hard by here."