"If you did, sir," he said, "it would be an injustice. I only touched the old man in self-defence." Macheson looked at him gravely. "I hope that that is the truth," he said. "You can go." The man stood up. He did not immediately depart. "What is it?" Macheson asked. "I was wondering, sir," he said, in a confidential whisper, "whether you could not give me an idea as to who the lady was who called herself Stephen Hurd's daughter in Paris six years ago." Macheson shook his head. "I have no idea," he answered curtly. The man shuffled away. Macheson lit a cigarette and watched him for a moment steadfastly through the large gilt-framed mirror. "Queer sort of Johnny, your friend," Holderness remarked. "He's a bad lot, I'm afraid," Macheson answered. "Somehow or other I can't help wishing that I hadn't seen him." Holderness laughed. "Man alive," he said, "it's a good thing you've come back to me, or you'd be a bundle of nerves in no time. We'll get along now, if you're ready. You might find something to say to 'em to-night. I know Henwood's pretty well pumped dry." They left the place, and took an omnibus citywards. CHAPTER VII A COUNTRY WALK It was exactly such a day as he would have chosen for his purpose when Macheson stepped out of the train at the wayside station and set his face towards Thorpe. A strong blustering wind, blowing down from the hills, had dried the road of all save a slight coating of mud, a wind fresh from the forest, so fresh and strong that he walked with his cap in his hand and his head thrown back, glad to breathe it in his lungs and feel the sting of it on his cheeks. It seemed to him that he had been away for months, as he climbed the long hill towards the village. The fields now were brown instead of green, a pungent smell of freshly turned earth and burning wood was in his nostrils. The hedges and trees were bare; he caught a glimpse of the great house itself from an unexpected point. Everywhere he was receiving familiar impressions. He came to the avenue up which he had passed on his first visit to the house, continually he met carts bearing her name, and villagers, most of whom he noticed with some surprise, looked at him doubtfully. Presently he arrived at the village itself, and stopped before the long, low, white house where Stephen Hurd lived. He paused for a moment, hesitating whether to fulfil this part of his mission now, or to wait until later in the day. Eventually, with the idea of getting the thing over, he opened the gate and rang the front-door bell. He was shown into the study, and in a few minutes Stephen Hurd came in, smoking a pipe, his hands in his pockets. When he saw who his visitor was he stopped short. He did not offer his hand or ask Macheson to sit down. He looked at him with a heavy frown upon his face. "You wished to see me?" he said.