He ran down the hill like the boy he still was, and turned his handsome young face for a farewell nod to Goodhare as he reached the bottom. Amos returned the salutation, but Rees was too far off to hear his suppressed chuckle of hideous exultation. “He takes the bait already,” he said to himself, grinding out the words between his teeth. “What a pitiful fool he is, and how splendidly he’ll suit my purpose.” CHAPTER IV. It was about three months after the first friendly interview between Rees Pennant and Amos Goodhare that, one hot July afternoon, Deborah Audaer was sitting on the terrace behind Captain Pennant’s house, with a book in her hand, and her eyes fixed, not upon its pages, but upon the straggling, untrimmed fruit trees which filled the bottom of the garden. Everything about the place--the glimpse of shabby furniture inside the open French window behind her, the greenish flags and broken balustrade of the terrace, and wild and uncultivated condition of the long garden--told of limited means and a pitiful struggle to make both ends meet. Deborah herself was dressed in the most extraordinarily ill-fitting frock that ever clothed a beautiful girl. It was made of a pretty bluish-grey cotton, and set off between the throat and the left shoulder by a bunch of double poppies. But it was too tight in front, too loose in the back, garnished everywhere by unexpected puckers, and giving the idea that it was making its wearer very uncomfortable. Deborah, who was tall and of a handsome, well-developed figure, looked in this garment as if she was masquerading in the dress of a narrow-chested girl with a hump-back. However, her fresh beauty was too decided to be spoilt by such an accident; she had a rich brunette complexion, blue eyes, good teeth, a nose a little bit inclined to be aquiline, and dark-brown hair with strands of a bright copper color. She had been sitting idly, with rather a melancholy expression of face, for some time, when Godwin, who had been watching the back of her head from the open window, stepped out on to the terrace and seated himself on the balustrade in front of her. It was not surprising that a young girl should find him less attractive than Rees, for Godwin was short, sallow, insignificant of feature, and rather brusque in manner. “What are you thinking about, Deborah?” he asked with a shrewd look. “Nothing,” of course, she answered promptly. “That is a--well, a perversion of the truth. You were thinking of Rees.” “I suppose I can think of anything I like.” “Yes, provided--firstly, that you tell the truth about it; and, secondly, that you don’t lose your temper over it. Shall I give another guess, and tell you _what_ you thought about Rees?” “You can if you like,” said she with an affectation of indifference. But she turned away to hide the fact that tears were rising to her eyes.