He turned back at a brisk pace; he had no key to the gate himself, the night-watchman had; the night-watchman did not seem to be in luck's way to-night. Lord Barmouth's step was quick and decisive, his smile sour; leaving that gate unlocked was a capital offence, and he was eager to deal punishment. But suddenly he came to a pause on the narrow path. Justification number four! A woman came towards him, hurrying along with rapid frightened tread. She was making for the gate. The nefariousness of the scheme thus revealed infuriated Barmouth. He stepped aside behind a tree and waited till she came nearer. She wore a large hat and a thick veil; she turned her head back several times, as though to listen behind her. He flashed his lantern on her and saw a dark skirt with a light silk petticoat showing an inch or two below. He conceived the gravest suspicions of the woman--a thing that perhaps need not be considered unreasonable. He stepped out on the path, and walked towards her, hiding the light of the lantern again. 'Who are you, ma'am? What are you doing here? Where do you come from?' His peremptory questions came like pistol-shots. She turned her head towards him, starting violently. But after that she stood still and silent. 'I am Lord Barmouth. I suppose you know me? What's your business here?' She was silent still. 'Nonsense! You have no business here, and you know it. You must give me an account of yourself, ma'am, or I shall find a way to make you.' She gave an account of herself; with trembling ungloved hands she raised her veil. He turned his lantern on her face and recoiled from her with a clumsy spring. 'You?' he gasped. 'You? Trix? Are you mad? Where are you going?' Her face was pale and hard-lined; her eyes were bright, and looked scarcely sane in the concentrated glare of the lantern. 'Let me pass,' she said in a low shaken voice. 'Let you pass! Where to? Nonsense! You're----' 'Let me pass,' she commanded again. 'No,' he answered, barring her path with his broad squat form. Decision rang in his tones. 'You must,' she said simply. She put out her arms and thrust at him. He was heavy to move, but he was driven on one side; the nervous fury in her arms sent him staggering back; he dropped his lantern and saved himself with his spud. 'Trix!' he cried in helpless rage and astonishment. 'No, no, no!' she sobbed out as she darted past him, pulling her veil down again and making for the gate. She ran now, sobbing convulsively, and catching up her skirts high over her ankles. The manner of her running scandalised Lord Barmouth hardly less than the fact of it.