A quarter of a mile beyond the village. Slotman nodded. He would go. He remembered that Alston had said something last night about this man Everard, had suggested all sorts of things might happen to him, Slotman, if he communicated in any way with Everard. “Anyhow I shall tell him, and unless he is a born fool he will soon get quit of her. By thunder! I’ll make her name reek, as I told her I would. I’ll set this place and Starden and half the infernal country talking about her! If she shews her face anywhere, she’ll get stared at. I’ll let her and that beast Alston see what it means to get on the wrong side of a chap like me.” A quarter of a mile beyond the village. Thank Heaven it was no further. The church bells had ceased ringing, from the church itself came the pleasant sounds of voices. The village street lay white in the sunlight with the blue shadows of the houses, a world of peace and of beauty, of sweet scenes and of sweet sounds; and now he had left the village behind him. “Is this Buddesby, my man? Those gates, are they the gates of Buddesby?” “Aye, they be,” said the man. He was a big, gipsy-looking fellow, who slouched with hunched shoulders and a yellow mongrel dog at his heels. “The gates of Buddesby they be, and—” He paused; he stared hard into Slotman’s face. “Oh!” he said slowly, “oh, so ’tis ’ee, be it? I been watching out for ’ee.” “What—what do you mean?” “I remember ’ee, I do. I remember your grinning face. I’ve carried it in my memory all right. See that dawg?” The man pointed to the lurcher. “See him: he’s more’n a brother, more’n a son, more’n a wife to me. That’s the dawg you run over that day, and you grinned. I seen it—you grinned!” The man’s black eyes sparkled. He looked swiftly up the road and down it, and Slotman saw the action and quivered. “I’ll give you—” he began. “I am very sorry; it was an accident. I’ll pay you for—” But the man with the blazing eyes had leaped at him. “I been waiting for ’ee, and I’ve cotched ’ee at last!” he shouted. Johnny Everard, hands in pockets, mooning about his stock and rickyard, this calm Sunday morning, never guessed how near he had been to receiving a visitor. He had not seen Joan since that night when, with Ellice beside him, he had seen her and the man at the door of Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. He had meant to go, but had not gone. He was due there to-day; this very morning Helen would expect him. He had never missed spending a Sunday with them since the engagement; and yet he felt loath to go, and did not know why. He had seen Connie off to Church. Con never missed. Ellice had not gone. Ellice was perhaps a little less constant than Con. He wondered where the girl was now, and, thinking of her, the frown on his face was smoothed away.