I wondered how he could lie in such a cheerful fashion; my heart ached at the thought that I had sacrificed myself for such a man as this. Of course, I understood that he had a right to protect himself, and to suspect everyone who might by any possibility guess his secret; but I would have given anything then to have heard one word from him that even hinted at the truth--to have seen in his eyes the faintest suggestion of fear. I began to understand that in the event of Murray Olivant being identified, that faithful servant Tinman might well hang, after all, for what he had not done. "And so I've come down here, to see if I can get any news of poor Barbara," he went on. "I've a shrewd suspicion that I may hear something of her; I don't think Murray would have bolted like that, unless he had found that the game was up, do you? "Miss Barbara is down here--with her father," I said. He turned to me quickly. "How do you know that?" he asked in surprise. "I know it--that is all," I said. Presently he found my slow steps too slow for his impatience; he excused himself, and hurried away at a great rate in the direction of the house, leaving me walking more slowly in his wake, and looking sadly after him. For this was different from anything I had anticipated; this was but a mean slipping-out of the business, with nothing heroic about it. I felt sorry for the child who was to trust her life to him. It was with a great sense of relief that, as I came nearer to the house, I met the elder Barbara. She stopped for a moment on seeing me, and then came towards me rapidly, with her hands clasped at her breast, looking at me. Only then did I remember, miserably enough, on what errand I had set out when last I had seen her, and with what threat on my lips. I realized that my troubles were not over. "My dear, you have news for me?" she whispered, looking straight into my eyes. "Tell me everything." "First tell me if you have seen the boy--young Millard?" "Yes, I've seen him; he's happy enough now. I saw him go to Barbara; there seemed a perfect understanding between them in a moment. They trust each other so completely." "They trust each other so completely," I replied mechanically. "Well--perhaps that is well. Now for my news, Barbara. What would you wish me to tell you?" "The truth," she whispered, still looking at me intently. I thought of the boy, with the brand of Cain upon him, who was at that moment doubtless holding the child of this Barbara in his arms, and whispering that he loved her; and she trusted him so completely! "You want the truth?" I responded with a smile. "Then I have no news for you." She took me in her arms--there, in that quiet country lane; she spoke to me, as I knew, out of the depth of her great love for me. "The truth, Charlie--the truth to me, at least," she pleaded.