A little later, he sought his chamber for his walking-stick. As he came down the corridor, he bethought himself of something he wanted to tell Mr. Marbury. He went over to the door of his room and rapped--then, rapped again, more briskly. The door, which had not been latched, opened and swung slowly back. Marbury was not in, but the bags, containing the ransom money, were standing on a table. He stopped and, casually, glanced around; no one was about. He listened; all was quiet on the second floor. He tiptoed to the stairway and looked down; no one was visible in the hall below. He went back, and stood, uncertain, a moment. Then, he walked straight in to Marbury's room, swiftly untied the bags, took several handfuls of gold from each, retied them, went out, closed the door behind him, and descended to the party on the lawn. Marbury would likely put the money away without inspecting it--and, if he did count it, the noble Englishman could not be suspected. XIV GUILTY AND NOT GUILTY Richard Maynadier remained for two days longer at Hedgely Hall, but he never was able to get Judith alone, however much he manoeuvred. After he went home, he rode over several times, unexpectedly and at unusual hours, hoping to surprise her and get his opportunity, but to no avail. She was deliberately avoiding him, he knew, and she let him know it, in the unmistakable way of a woman. It was as though she said to him: "You want to get me off alone, Dick, but I shall not permit it." So much he understood. But what troubled him, was whether it stopped with that, or whether there was a qualifying phrase--an "until I am ready," tacked on, and not yet disclosed. He was not unduly sanguine, and he was properly modest, but he had thought it all over--her attitude toward him, her belief in him, her dependence upon his judgment and advice--and he considered he had reasonable ground to hope that she had come to view him in another light than as a friend. Doubtless, he had been blind not to see it before--and blind, as well, to the character of his own feelings. He simply had never thought of love. Now, he was thinking of it a very great deal. There was something, however, which he did not exactly fancy, and that was the liking she seemed to have developed, recently, for Parkington's society--and Parkington for hers. They were much together, would take long walks in the park and to the river, would talk for hours, while he told her stories of London and its great world. Maynadier did not know, of course, whether he ventured upon the softer side, whether he tried to strike the chord of self, in an appealing way--and Judith gave no indication. She was enjoying herself, so much was evident, and, at the same time, playing her part, admirably. Parkington was the stranger, and, since he seemed to wish to devote himself to his hostess, and his hostess was not averse, Maynadier could not find fault.