He was shown into the library and left alone for nearly twenty minutes. Then Wilhelmina came, languid, and moving as though with tired feet. Yet her manner was gentler and kinder than usual. She leaned back in one of the vast easy-chairs, and murmured a few graceful words of sympathy. "We were all so sorry for you, Mr. Hurd," she said. "It was a most shocking affair." "I thank you very much--madam," he replied, after a moment's pause. It was better, perhaps, for the present, to assume that their relations were to continue those of employer and employed. "I do not know," she continued, "whether you care to speak about this shocking affair. Perhaps you would prefer that we did not allude to it for the present." He shook his head. "I am not sure," he answered, "that it is not rather a relief to have it spoken of. One can't get it out of one's mind, of course." "There is no news of the man--no fresh capture?" "None," he answered. "They are dragging the slate quarry again to-day. I believe there are some very deep holes where the body may have drifted." "Do you believe that that is the case?" she asked; "or do you think that he got clean away?" "I cannot tell," he answered. "It seems impossible that he should have escaped altogether without help." "And that he could not have had, could he?" she asked. He looked across at her thoughtfully, watching her face, curious to see whether his words might have any effect. "Only from one person," he said. "Yes?" "From Macheson, the fellow who came here to convert us all," he said deliberately. Beyond a slight elevation of the eyebrows, his scrutiny was in vain, for she made no sign. "He scarcely seems a likely person, does he, to aid a criminal?" she asked in measured tones. Stephen Hurd shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps not," he admitted, "but at any rate he sheltered him." "As he doubtless would have done any passer-by on such a night," she remarked. "By the bye, what has become of that young man?" "He has left the neighbourhood," Hurd answered shortly. "Left altogether?" she inquired. "I imagine so," Hurd answered. "I had the shelter destroyed, and I gave him to understand pretty clearly what your wishes were. There really wasn't much else for him to do." Her eyelids drooped over her half closed eyes. For a moment she was silent. "If you hear of him again," she said quietly, "be so good as to let me know." Her indifference seemed too complete to be assumed. Yet somehow or other Hurd felt that she was displeased with him. "I will do so," he said, "if I hear anything about him. It scarcely seems likely." Wilhelmina sat quite still. Her head, resting slightly upon the long delicate fingers of her right hand, was turned away from the young man who was daring to watch her. She was apparently gazing across the park, down the magnificent avenue of elms which led to the village. So he was gone--without a word! How else? On the whole she could not but approve! And yet!--and yet!