“I am much obliged to him,” said the rector through his closed teeth. “He did not think I had been guilty of fraud, then?” “No, he did not,” Kate muttered, her voice faltering for the first time. “Indeed. I am much obliged to him.” He had received it even worse than she had expected. It was terrible to go on in the face of such scorn and incredulity. But to stop there was to have done only evil, as Kate knew, and she persevered. “I have one more thing I wish to say, if you will permit me,” she continued steadying her voice and striving to speak in as indifferent a manner as possible. He bowed, his face hard and contemptuous. The wind had shifted slightly, and, to protect herself from the small rain which was falling, she changed her position, so as to face the churchyard. He saw only her profile. If he looked proud, involuntarily he remarked how proud she looked also—how pure and cold was the line of her features, softened only by the roundness of her chin. “I am told,” she said in a low voice, “that the fewer enemies you make, and the more quietly you proceed, the greater will be the chance of your remaining when the mistake is found out. Pray,” she said more sharply, for he had raised his hand, as if to interrupt, “have patience for a moment, Mr. Lindo. I shall not trouble you again. I only wish you to know that those who have cause to dislike you—I do not mean my father, there are others—are congratulating themselves that you are playing into their hands, and consider that every disagreement between you and any part of the parish is a weapon given them, to be used when the crisis comes.” “When the mistake is found out?” he said, grimly repeating her words. “Or the fraud? But I forgot—Mr. Bonamy does not believe in that!” “You understand me, I think,” she said, ignoring the latter part of his speech. “And may I ask,” he continued, his eyes on her face, “who my ill-wishers are?” “I do not think that matters,” she replied. “Then, at least, why am I indebted to you for this warning?” His tone as he asked the question was as contemptuous as before. And yet Kate felt that this she must answer. To refuse to answer it, or to evade it, would be to lay herself open to surmises of all kinds. “I thought it a pity that you should fall into a trap unwarned,” she answered, looking away at the yew-trees. “And it seemed to me that, for several reasons, your friends were not likely to warn you.” “There, I quite agree with you,” he retorted quickly. “My friends would not have believed in the trap.” “Perhaps not,” she said, outwardly unmoved.