‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you will give me the pleasure of some day continuing our talk. As for our friend below, it so happens that I _have_ managed to pick up a little more of his history than the sexton seems to have heard of—if you would care some time or other to share it. I live only at the foot of the hill, not half a mile distant. Perhaps you could spare the time now?’ Lawford took out his watch, ‘You are really very kind,’ he said. ‘But, perhaps—well, whatever that history may be, I think you would agree that mine is even—but, there, I’ve talked too much about myself already. Perhaps to-morrow?’ ‘Why, to-morrow, then,’ said his companion. ‘It’s a flat wooden house, on the left-hand side. Come at any time of the evening’; he paused again and smiled—‘the third house after the Rectory, which is marked up on the gate. My name is Herbert—Herbert Herbert to be precise.’ Lawford took out his pocket-book and a card. ‘Mine,’ he said, handing it gravely to his companion. ‘is Lawford—at least...’ It was really the first time that either had seen the other’s face at close quarters and clear-lit; and on Lawford’s a moon almost at the full shone dazzlingly. He saw an expression—dismay, incredulity, overwhelming astonishment—start suddenly into the dark, rather indifferent eyes. ‘What is it?’ he cried, hastily stooping close. ‘Why,’ said the other, laughing and turning away, ‘I think the moon must have bewitched me too.’ CHAPTER TEN Lawford listened awhile before opening his door. He heard voices in the dining-room. A light shone faintly between the blinds of his bedroom. He very gently let himself in, and unheard, unseen, mounted the stairs. He sat down in front of the fire, tired out and bitterly cold in spite of his long walk home. But his mind was wearier even than his body. He tried in vain to catch up the thread of his thoughts. He only knew for certain that so far as his first hope and motives had gone his errand had proved entirely futile. ‘How could I possibly fall asleep with that fellow talking there?’ he had said to himself angrily; yet knew in his heart that their talk had driven every other idea out of his mind. He had not yet even glanced into the glass. His every thought was vainly wandering round and round the one curious hint that had drifted in, but which he had not yet been able to put into words.