A high wind had sprung up and Miriam had forgotten to use hatpins. The next second she was bareheaded. Her hat, a chic affair of the mushroom variety, sailed gracefully ahead of her around a curve and then another and stronger gust of wind carried it into a field on her left. With a disgusted ejaculation over her stupidity in omitting the pins, Miriam followed her hat as best she could. She had just retrieved it and slapped it vigorously on her head, regardless of the angle, when she espied a couple of cows in the corner of the field. Miriam stopped not on the order of her going and when she halted she had reached the edge of a wood. Having a good bump of locality, she recognized, after a careful glance around, the wood as the one she and Trenholm had walked through when returning from Hills Bridge. It was growing dark and Miriam faced in the direction she judged Abbott's Lodge to be and hurried along the path. In making the next turn she paused abruptly. To her left lay the graveyard which she had remarked upon to Trenholm. Its air of desolation was emphasized by the fading light, and Miriam did not plan to linger as she had done when Trenholm was with her. But her intention to hurry past the old Mason burying plot was checked at sight of a man kneeling by a grave and digging in it with a trowel. Miriam stopped short as the man looked up. The recognition was mutual. Corbin rose stiffly to his knees and, bending over, brushed off some dirt and dry leaves which clung to his trousers. "How come ye here, Miss?" he demanded suspiciously. Miriam's first impulse was to decline to answer, but Corbin had stepped back from the grave and stood almost directly in front of her, blocking the footpath. "I am out for a walk," she replied, "and by chance came this way." "It's lonesome like, for a lady." Corbin hitched himself a trifle closer, a beam of admiration in his watery eyes, which Miriam found more objectionable than a glare of rage. "What are _you_ doing here, Corbin?" she asked, coolly taking the situation into her hands. "What interests you in these old graves?" Corbin shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "Getting some ivy," he explained. "I wanted to plant some around the garage." "So you rob a grave--" Corbin's complexion turned an even more unhealthy color. "Oh, the old suicide won't miss it," he said coarsely, and hastily changed the subject. "Funny, weren't it, that Mr. Paul should ha' left in his will this here graveyard to Mr. Alan, 'cause it belonged to his ancestors, and never given him nothin' else, 'cept five hundred dollars." Miriam was not following closely Corbin's jumbled accounts of the provisions of Paul's will, which Mr. Corcoran had explained to Martha and to him at the close of the reading of the will. "Who lies in this suicide's grave?" she asked suddenly, and the question took Corbin by surprise. "Mr. Alan's grandfather." "And his name?" with a persistence which surprised herself as well as Corbin.