That afternoon Elizabeth Twitcher determined to go to see James Hutchings. She had not seen him since their interview on the night of the murder. In the ordinary course she would not have dreamt of going to him after that interview, for it had left them on such a footing that further advances, repentant advances, must come from him. But there were pressing reasons why she should not wait for him to make the advances which he would in ordinary circumstances have made after his sulkiness had abated. All her fellow-servants and all the villagers, who were not members of the Hutchings family, were assured that he had murdered Lord Loudwater. Three of the maids, who were jealous of her greater prettiness, had with ill-dissembled spitefulness congratulated her on having dismissed him before the murder; her mother had also congratulated her on that fact. Elizabeth Twitcher was the last girl in the world to desert a man in misfortune, and, considering James Hutchings' temper, she could only consider the murder a misfortune. Besides, she had been very fond of him; she was very fond of him still, and the fact that he was in great trouble was making him dearer to her. Moreover, every one who spoke to her about him told her that he was looking miserable beyond words. Her heart went out to him. None the less, she did not go to see him without a struggle. She felt that he ought to come to her. However, her pride had been beaten in that struggle by her fondness and her pity--even more by her pity. When she knocked at the door of his father's cottage James Hutchings himself opened it, and his harassed, hang-dog air settled in her mind for good and all the question of his guilt. She was not daunted; indeed, a sudden anger against Lord Loudwater for having brought about his own murder flamed up in her. Like every one else who had known him, she could feel no pity for him. James Hutchings showed no pleasure whatever at the sight of her. Indeed, he scowled at her. "Come to gloat over me, have you?" he growled bitterly. "Don't be silly!" she said sharply. "What should I want to do a thing like that for? Is your father in?" "No; he isn't," said James Hutchings sulkily, but his eyes gazed at her hungrily. He showed no intention of inviting her to enter. Therefore she pushed past him, walked across the kitchen, sat down in the window-seat, and surveyed him. He shut the door, turned, and gazed at her, scowling uncertainly. Then she said gently: "You're looking very poorly, Jim." "I didn't think you'd be the one to tell of my being in the Castle that night!" he cried bitterly. "It wasn't me," she said quietly. "It was that little beast, Jane Pittaway. She heard us talking in the drawing-room." "Oh, that was it, was it?" he said more gently. Then, scowling again, he cried fiercely: "I'll wring her neck!" "That's enough of that!" she said sharply. "You've talked a lot too much about wringing people's necks. And a lot of good it's done you."