Into this room came Jenny, with her mind full of the recent conversation with Tait. She threw down her music-book on the table and went to kiss her father. He was seated in his armchair, instead of at his desk as usual, and looked rather sternly at her as she bent over him. Tall and white-haired, with a sad face and a slim figure, the old man looked singularly interesting, his appearance being enhanced by his peculiar garb, a dressing gown and a black skullcap. Indeed, he was more like a mediæval magician than an aged gentleman of the nineteenth century. He looked like a man with a history, which was doubtless the reason Thorston gossips were so anxious concerning his past. In country towns curiosity is quite a disease. In the hurry of her entrance Jenny had not noticed that a stranger was present, but on greeting her father with a fond kiss, she turned to see an elderly gentleman looking at her intently. Mr. Paynton explained the presence of the stranger with less than his usual suavity, but from the tone of his voice Jenny guessed that he was angry with her. As it afterward appeared he had good reason to be. "Jenny, this is my friend, Mr. Hilliston." Hilliston! Jenny could not suppress a start of surprise, even of alarm. The prophecy of Tait had been fulfilled sooner than she had expected. There was something uncanny in the speedy accomplishment of a prognostication in which, at the time, she had hardly believed. "Hilliston! Mr. Hilliston!" she repeated, with a gasp of surprise, "already!" This time it was Hilliston's turn to be surprised, and his face darkened with suspicion. "What am I to understand by 'already,' Miss Paynton?" he said quickly. "Why! That is--Mr. Tait----" began Jenny, in excuse, when her father cut her short. He rose from his chair, and exclaimed in a voice of alarm: "Tait! Then you have seen him already?" "Yes, father," said the girl, in some bewilderment at his tone. "Where?" "In the church, half an hour ago." "Did he question you?" "He did." "And you replied?" "I answered his questions," said Jenny quietly, "if you refer to the Larcher affair." "I do refer to it," groaned her father, sinking back into his chair. "Unhappy girl! you know not what trouble you have caused." Hilliston said nothing, but stood moodily considering what was best to be done. He saw that Tait had been too clever for him, and had anticipated his arrival. Yet he had come as speedily as possible; not a moment had he lost since his arrival in Eastbourne to seek out Jenny and ask her to be silent. But it was too late; he had missed his opportunity by a few minutes, and it only remained for him to learn how much the girl had told his enemy. No wonder he hated Tait; the fellow was too dangerous a foeman to be despised. "We may yet mend matters," he said judiciously, "if Miss Jenny will repeat so much of the conversation as she remembers."