Just at that moment she succeeded in wrenching her imprisoned hand from his strong grasp, and without waiting for any more words, set off towards Kesterwick almost at a run. Jeremy was a man of slow mind, though when once his mind was made up, it was of a singularly determined nature. At first he did not quite take in the full significance of the scene, but when he did a great red flush spread over his honest face, and the big gray eyes sparkled dangerously. Presently Mr. Plowden turned and saw him. Jeremy noticed that the “sign of the cross” was remarkably visible on his forehead, and that his face wore an expression by no means pleasant to behold—anything but Christian, in short. “Hullo!” he said to Jeremy; “what are you doing there?” Before answering, Jeremy put his hand on the top of the sod wall, and vaulting over, walked straight up to the clergyman. “I was watching you,” he said, looking him straight in the eyes. “Indeed!—an honourable employment; eavesdropping I think it is generally called.” Whatever had passed between Mr. Plowden and Eva Ceswick, it had clearly not improved the former’s temper. “What do you mean?” “I mean what I say.” “Well, Mr. Plowden, I may as well tell you what _I_ mean; I am not good at talking, but I know that I shall be able to make you understand. I saw you just now assaulting Miss Ceswick.” “It is a lie!” “That is not a gentlemanlike word, Mr. Plowden, but as you are not a gentleman I will overlook it.” Jeremy, after the dangerous fashion of the Anglo-Saxon race, always got wonderfully cool as a row thickened. “I repeat that I saw you holding her, notwithstanding her struggles to get away.” “And what is that to you, confound you!” said Mr. Plowden, shaking with fury, and raising a thick stick he held in his hand in a suggestive manner. “Don’t lose your temper, and you shall hear. Miss Eva Ceswick is engaged to my friend Ernest Kershaw, or something very like it, and, as he is not here to look after his own interests, I must look after them for him.” “Ah, yes,” answered Mr. Plowden, with a ghastly smile, “I have heard of that. The murderer, yon mean?” “I recommend you, Mr. Plowden, in your own interest, “to be a little more careful in your terms.” “And supposing that there has been something between your—your friend—” “Much better term, Mr. Plowden.” “And Miss Eva Ceswick, what, I should like to know, is there to prevent her having changed her mind?” Jeremy laughed aloud, it must be admitted rather insolently, and in a way calculated to irritate people of meeker mind than Mr. Plowden. “To any one, Mr. Plowden, who has the privilege of your acquaintance, and who also knows Ernest Kershaw, your question would seem absurd. You see, there are some people between whom there can be no comparison. It is not possible that, after caring for Ernest, any woman could care for you;” and Jeremy laughed again.