The thoughts of the girl had drifted to speculation about the transplanted countryman of hers whose personality had come to interest her so greatly. He had challenged her trust in him and she had responded with a pledge. He had not explained a single one of the suspicious circumstances against him. He had not taken her into his confidence, nor had he in so many words declared his innocence. She was glad he had told her nothing, had demanded her faith as a matter of course. It was part of her pride in him that she could believe without evidence. All the world would know he was not guilty after he had shown his proofs. It would be no test of friendship to stand by him then. A step sounded on the gravel behind her and an arm opened to let her hand slip round the elbow. "May I stroll out this dance with you, Miss Dwight?" Lord Farquhar asked formally, dropping into step with her. Moya and her guardian were kindred spirits. They never needed to explain themselves to each other. Both knew how to make-believe. "If you're not afraid of a scandal at being alone with me so far from a chaperone," the girl answered lightly. He burlesqued a sigh. "I'm only afraid there won't be any. It's the penalty of age, my dear. I can claim all sorts of privileges without making Verinder jealous." "Oh, Verinder," she scoffed. "Should I have said Kilmeny?" he asked. "I'll tell you a secret, guardy," whispered Moya gayly. "You're a hundred years younger than either of them." "I wish my glass told me so." "Fiddlesticks! Youth is in the heart. Mr. Verinder has never been young and Captain Kilmeny has forgotten how to be." "I fancy Ned would be willing to learn how again if he had the proper teacher." She gave his arm a little squeeze. "You dear old matchmaker." "Heaven forbid! I'm merely inquiring, my dear." "Oh, I see--your _in-loco-parentis_ duty." "Exactly. So it isn't going to be Ned?" She looked across the turbid moonlit river before she answered. "I don't think so." "Nor Verinder?" "Goodness, no!" A little ripple of laughter flowed from her lips before she added: "He's changed his mind. It's Joyce he wants now." Farquhar selected a cigar from the case. "Hm! Sure you didn't change it for him?" A dimple flashed into her cheeks. "I may have helped a little, but not half as much as Joyce." "That young woman is a born flirt," Lord Farquhar announced, his beard and the lower part of his face in the sudden glow of the lighted match. "Upon my word, I saw her making eyes at your highwayman the night we had him here." There was a moment's silence before she answered. "Anybody could see that he was interested in her." "It doesn't matter to me who interests him, but I can't have any of my wards being romantic over a Dick Turpin," he replied lightly. She was standing in the shadow, so that he could not see the dye sweep into her cheeks. "I'm afraid he is going to disappoint you. He's not a highwayman at all." "Did he tell you so?" "No. But I know it."