"Joe will be witness enough," said the young man decisively. "No, sir; better let me see him alone; there may be rough work. Your cloth----" "Deuce take my cloth!" cried the Rector. "Bless me, may I be forgiven! My cloth might keep the peace." "I don't want the peace kept," retorted Thorold. "Unless that Creole Frenchman apologizes I'll thrash him!" The Rector stared, and well he might. All the well-bred composure had gone from Alan's face and manner, the veneer of civilization was stripped off, and man, primeval man, showed naked and unashamed. He stared back at the clergyman, and for quite a minute the two looked at one another. Then the younger man turned and left the room, and Mr. Phelps made no attempt to stay him. He knew that he might as well have tried to chain a whirlwind. He bowed to circumstances and sat down again to his wine. "I hope to Heaven he'll keep himself in hand," he muttered, without his usual self-apology for swearing. "Lestrange is dangerous; but Alan, in his present mood, is more so. I should not care to be the man to meet him with that look on his face. Dear! dear!" The little man sighed. "I wish all these mysteries were over and done with, and we could resume the quiet tenor of our way." Meantime, Alan was making for the inn. It was just on nine o'clock, and the night had turned out wet. As he had no overcoat, the rain was soaking him. But he did not care for that. His blood was on fire to meet this man and force the truth out of him. He was certain that Lestrange could explain much if he chose; and whether he chose or not, Alan intended that he should speak out. He was determined that an end should be put to these troubles. The rain whipped his face and drenched him, but he walked on steadily. There was no gas in Heathton, which was so far uncivilized, and the roads were dark and miry. Not until he got into the principal street did he leave the mud and the darkness behind him. Then before him glimmered the feeble lantern over the door, with which Mrs. Timber illuminated the entrance to her premises. Alan could hear the drowsy voices of the villagers sitting over their ale in the taproom;--heard above the rest the pompous speech of Cicero, who was evidently playing his favorite part of Sir Oracle. In the hall Mr. Thorold was found by the landlady. The woman pervaded the house like a fly, and was always to be discovered where she was least expected. She recognized Alan, curtsied and awaited instructions. "Take me," he said abruptly, "to Captain Lestrange." "Lor', sir!" Mrs. Timber, in her amazement, overstepped the bounds of class. "You said he was no friend of yours, sir." "Nor is he. Come, show me his room. He is in, I suppose?" "Catch him wetting himself!" she said, leading the way, with a sour smile. "He's a furrin' Jack-o-dandy, that he is. Not but what he don't pay reg'lar. But I see the color of his money afore my meat goes down his throat. This is the door, sir."