"Moore," I said, as soon as I was sure that the two were well out of hearing, "Moore, they--he--that poor man has been very, very good about it." "Yes," he agreed, meekly enough at first, "he has. All the same, Reggie, I don't see that you need have spoken of what I did--it was only a bit of a lark after all--as `impertinent'." "I did not apply it only to _you_," I replied. "I said _our_. And you needn't suppose I don't blame myself. I do, bitterly, and I shall do so as long as I live, for having tried to pry into these poor people's secret--above all, for having put it into your head to do so." Here Moore grunted, but he did not attempt any further defence. "You don't know how I hated being told I was not to blame at all, and not being able to confess that I was." "Why weren't you able?" Moore asked. "Because of course it would only have made it far worse for the Greys to hear how, after all these years, they are still talked over. And besides that, I should have had to bring in poor Isabel! But for _her_, I shouldn't have so much minded telling the other man how inquisitive I had been--only after all, there was really no time to explain." [Illustration: "'I must run to meet it,' I exclaimed."] "You can tell him in the fly, if you like," said Moore. I was not sure if he said it to tease me or if he were in earnest. I preferred to think the former, especially as it showed that he could not be in any very great suffering if he were equal to teasing! "I wish the fly would come," was the only reply I condescended to make. "So do I," began Moore, and his rather plaintive tone made me very sorry for him again. "Is your foot--" I was just going to ask, when the welcome sound of approaching wheels caught my ears. Our unknown friend had lost no time! "Here it is," I exclaimed, "I must run to meet it, Moore." I was not a moment too soon. The man was driving quickly, and I inferred that the stranger had not ventured to prevent his doing so, as he doubtless was in hopes of still catching the train he had been ordered for. And the reception of my first call was not encouraging. "Stop, please," I cried. "Do stop for a moment." "Can't," was the reply; "I'm bound to catch the London express. You must send your order to the inn." "It's not an order," I replied. "Some one, my brother, has had an accident, and is lying on the road," and I pointed towards the spot. "You must stop in common humanity. We are staying at the Manor-house, Mr Wynyard's." By this time the man had probably found out that I was a lady--possibly even recognised me, as the Scart Bridge flys were sometimes used by the Wynyards for station-work. And in spite of his protest, he had slackened speed a little. This gave the occupant of the vehicle time to put his head out and ask questions--to the driver's disgust no doubt, little suspecting that his hirer, the principal in the matter of catching the express, had no expectation whatever of doing so.