On the eventful night of his capture, and after Georgiana had retired, Everell had obtained Foxwell’s permission to communicate with John Tarby by means of the keeper, who, as he had learned from Tarby himself, was privately on excellent terms with the poacher. By this medium, then, Everell had taken leave of his former host with due expressions of thanks, both in words and in gold, and had obtained the cloak-bag containing his travelling equipment. Tarby had been left under the impression that the young gentleman, after being sheltered secretly for a time at Foxwell Court, was to proceed upon his journey. That indeed was the impression of the servants at Foxwell Court, and of Georgiana herself. Everell did not tell her how long or short was to be his visit, and she, glad enough to postpone all thought of his departure, never broached the subject. Only once did he hint at the probability of his leaving her before many days. It was when, on Saturday evening, she spoke of going to church next day. “Nay,” he pleaded, with a sudden alarm in his eyes, “you will have Sundays enough for church-going, when I am not here.” It was not necessary to say more; but he had to feign excessive lightness of heart to quiet the vague apprehension his own earnestness had raised in her mind. Foxwell and his friends appeared at church that Sunday without Georgiana. Her absence was noted by one important person, at least, for, after the service, Squire Thornby accosted Foxwell outside the church porch, with a lack of preliminary salutation, blurting out: “How now, neighbour Foxwell, ’tis no illness, I hope, keeps Miss Foxwell home such a fine day?” “No illness, thank you,” replied Foxwell, mildly; “nothing of consequence, that is: my niece slept rather badly last night, because of the wind.” “I’m glad ’tis nothing serious. Tell her I said so, with my best compliments. Tell her she was missed. We could better ’a’ spared you, Foxwell,—and that’s a true word spoken in jest, if ever there was one.” This pleasantry was accompanied by a smile of such confident insolence that the onlookers set their ears for the piercing retort they thought sure to come. It was on the tip of Foxwell’s tongue; but he checked it, dropped his eyes, and sought refuge in a feebly counterfeited laugh. His enemy looked around triumphantly, and walked off. Foxwell, who saw nothing in the Squire’s concern for Georgiana but a pretext for rudeness to himself, digested his chagrin in silence, though aware of the surprised glances of Rashleigh and the ladies, to whom he had mentioned his former method of dealing with this booby.