Her instinct was not at fault: of that she was sure. For some reason or other, Maytree Cottage was under observation. At first she was frightened, then indignant. She had half a mind to go into the village and telephone to Elk, to demand an explanation. Somehow it never occurred to her to be angry with Dick, though he was solely responsible for placing the men who were guarding her day and night. She went to bed early, setting her alarm for three o’clock. She woke before the bell roused her, and, dressing quickly, went down to make some coffee. As she passed her father’s door, he called her. “I’m up, if you want me, Ella.” “Thank you, daddy,” she said gratefully. She was glad to know that he was around. It gave her a feeling of confidence which she had never before possessed in the presence of this old man. The first light was showing in the sky when she saw the silhouette of Mr. Maitland against the dawn, and heard the soft click of the latch as he opened the garden gate. She had not heard the car nor seen it. This time Maitland had alighted some distance short of the house. He was, as usual, nervous and for the time being speechless. A heavy overcoat, which had seen its best days, was buttoned up to his neck, and a big cap covered his hairless head. “That you, miss?” he asked in a husky whisper. “Yes, Mr. Maitland.” “You coming along for a little walk? . . . Got something to tell you. . . . Very important, miss.” “We will walk in the garden,” she said, lowering her voice. He demurred. “Suppose anybody sees us, eh? That’d be a fine lookout for me! Just a little way up the road, miss,” he pleaded. “Nobody will hear us.” “We can go on to the lawn. There are some chairs there.” “Is everybody asleep? All your servant gels?” “We have no servant girls,” she smiled. He shook his head. “I don’t blame you. I hate ’um. Got six fellows in uniform at my house. They frighten me stiff!” She led him across the lawn, carrying a cushion, and, settling him in a chair, waited. The beginnings of these interviews had always seemed as promising, but after a while Mr. Maitland had a trick of rambling off at a tangent into depths which she could not plumb. “You’re a nice gel,” said Maitland huskily. “I thought so the first time I saw you . . . you wouldn’t do a poor old man any ’arm, would you, miss?” “Why, of course not, Mr. Maitland.” “I know you wouldn’t. I told Matilda you wouldn’t. She says you’re all right. . . . Ever been in the workhouse, miss?” “In the poorhouse?” she said, smiling in spite of herself. “Why, no, I’ve never been in a poorhouse.” He looked round fearfully from side to side, peering under his white eyebrows at a clump of bushes which might conceal an eavesdropper. “Ever been in quod?” She did not recognize the word. “I have,” he went on. “Quod’s prison, miss. Naturally you wouldn’t understand them words.” Again he looked round. “Suppose you was me. . . . It all comes to that question—suppose you was me!”