His voice unconsciously followed the swing of his pencil. It seemed certain that he was making conversation with the sole purpose of entertaining the old woman. With a pleased laugh and a shake of her grey curls she replied: “Ah, I wish I could, sir. I wish I could burn the bad letters and send on only the good ones--but they're all alike on the outside. It's as hard to say what's inside a letter as it is to tell what's inside a man by lookin' on his face.” “Yes,” replied Christian, reading over what he had just written. “Yes, Mrs. Chalder, you are right.” “But the reason of your letter gettin' earlier this morning was that Seen'yer Bruno said he was goin' past the Hall, sir, and would just leave the letters at the Lodge. It is a bit out of the carrier's way, and that man _do_ have a long tramp every day, sir.” “Ah, that accounts for it,” murmured the journalist, without looking up. He was occupied in crossing his t's and dotting his i's. He felt that Hilda was looking at him, and some instinct told him that she saw the motive of his conversation, but still he played his part and wore his mask of carelessness, as men have done before women, knowing the futility of it, since the world began. She never referred to the incident, and made no remark whatever with a view to his doing so, but he knew that it would be remembered, and in after days he learnt to build up a very castle of hope upon that frail foundation. Hilda had not been paying much attention to what he was saying until Signor Bruno's name was mentioned. The old man had hitherto occupied a very secondary place in her thoughts. He was no one in her circle of possibly interesting people, beyond the fact of his having passed through a troubled political phase--a fighter on the losing side. Now he had, as it were, assumed a more important _rôle_. The mention of his name possessed a new suggestion: and all this, forsooth, because Christian Vellacott opined that the benevolent old face was known to him. She began to entertain exaggerated ideas concerning the young journalist's thoughts and motives. Twice had she obtained a glimpse into the inner chamber of his mind, and on each occasion the result had been a vague suggestion of some mental conflict, some dark game of cross-purposes between him and Signor Bruno. Remembering this, she, in her intelligent simplicity, began to ascribe to Christian's every word and action an ulterior motive which in reality did not perhaps exist. She noted Christian's calm and direct way of reaching the end he desired, and unconsciously she yielded a little to the influence of his strength--an influence dangerously fascinating for a strong woman. Her strength is so different from that of a man that there is no real conflict--it seeks to yield, and glories over its own downfall. After paying for the telegram, Christian took possession of the bulky packet of newspapers addressed to him, and they left the post office. CHAPTER X ON THE SCENT