“It was very good of you to help the kiddie with her bike,” said Johnny, as he splashed the petrol into the tank. “If you find yourself at any time over at Little Langbourne, we’d be glad to see you. My name’s Everard, my place is Buddesby.” “Thanks! It is very good of you, and I shan’t forget!” He nodded, smiled, and walked on, then glanced back. He could see Johnny fumbling with the car, and he smiled. “That’s my hated rival, and he seems a decent sort of chap.” An hour later he was back at Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. “The post’s come in since you went, Mr. Alston,” said Mrs. Bonner, “and there’s a letter for you.” It was a bulky envelope from Hurst Dormer. There was a note from Mrs. Morrisey, to say that everything was going as it should go, and she enclosed all the letters that had come by post. And the first letter that Hugh opened was one on pink paper, delicately scented. How well he remembered that scent! How it brought back to him a certain pretty little face, and a pair of sweet blue eyes. “Dear little maid,” he said. He read the letter, and stared at it in astonishment and dismay. CHAPTER XXXII THE SPY It seemed to Hugh Alston that he had not read the letter aright; it was so amazing, so disconcerting, that he felt bewildered. What on earth is wrong? he thought, then he took the letter to the better light at the window and read again. “MY DEAR HUGH, “I have been over to Hurst Dormer three times in the car, each time hoping and praying that I might find you; but you are never there now, so I am writing, Hugh, hoping that you will get my letter. I know I have no right to.” (This, Hugh noticed, had been carefully crossed out.) “I want to see you so much. I want to ask your advice and help. I don’t know what to do, and I am so unhappy, so wretched. Forgive me, dear, for troubling you, but if—if only I could see you I am sure you would help me, and tell me what it is right I should do. Ever and ever “Your loving, “MARJORIE.” “So unhappy, so wretched!” Hugh read, and it was this that had amazed him. Here was a girl engaged to be married to the man she loved, the man she had told him she could not live without, the man of her own choice, of her own heart—he himself smoothed the way for her, had taken away his own undesirable person, had stepped aside, leaving the field to his rival, and now ... Hugh blinked at the letter. “What on earth should she be unhappy about? She has had a quarrel with Tom perhaps, and she wants me to go and talk to him like a Dutch Uncle. Poor little maid! I daresay it is all about twopence! But it seems very real and tragic to her.” Hugh sighed. He ought to stay here. This was his place, watching and keeping guard and ward for Joan, yet Marjorie wanted him. “I’ll go. I can be there and back in a couple of days. I’ll go.” He had just time to write and catch the early outward mail from Starden, to-day was Thursday. “MY DEAR MARJORIE,