“Not very far,” he said.  “You have been riding, too.  Is it a wonder we did not meet.”

“Yes,” she assented, languidly.  “I met no one, saw no one, while I was out.  Here comes your shadow,” she added, as Tiny, having heard his beloved master’s voice, came helter-skelter, head over heels, and leapt on Stafford’s lap.  “How fond he is of you.”

Stafford nodded.

“Yes; I’m jolly glad no one answered the advertisement for its owner.”

She bent over and stroked the terrier, who always seemed uneasy under her caress, and her hand touched Stafford’s.  She glanced at him as it did so, but the white hand so soft and warm might have been a piece of senseless wood for all its effect upon him whose soul was still thrilling with Ida Heron’s touch; and with a tightening of the lips, she took her hand away and leant back, but her eyes still clung to him, as, all unconscious, he bent over the dog.

At that moment a carriage drove up, and Mr. Falconer alighted.  He came up the steps, his heavy face grave and yet alert; and his keen eyes glanced at the pair as they sat side by side.  Stafford looked up and nodded.

“Glad to see you back, Mr. Falconer,” he said, pleasantly.  “Stands London where it did?”

“Pretty much so, yes,” responded Mr. Falconer, grimly.  “Yes, plenty of other thing change, have their day and cease to be, but the little village keeps its end up and sees things—­and men—­come and go, flare up, flicker and fizzle out.  No, thanks; I’ll have some tea in my room.”

“And like a dutiful daughter, I will go and pour it out for him,” said Maude.

She rose—­Tiny rose also, and barked at her—­followed her father to his room and stood watching him as he took off his frock-coat—­he had no valet—­and slowly put on a loose jacket.

“Well?” she said, at last.

He sank into a chair and looked up at her with a sardonic smile on his face.

“Yes, I’m back,” he said.  “I hurried back because Sir Stephen is going to sign the articles to-night, going to bring the thing to a conclusion.”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on his hawk-like ones with a calm but keen watchfulness.

“And you?  Have you—­”

He leant forward, and held out one claw-like hand, open.

“Yes, I’ve got him fast and tight.”  His hand closed, and his eyes shot a swift, lurid gleam from under their half-lowered lids.  “I’ve got him as in a vice; I’ve only to turn the screw and—­I squeeze him as flat and dry as a lemon.”  She drew a long breath of satisfaction, of relief.

“You are clever!” she said.  “And in one fortnight.”

He smiled grimly.

“Yes; it is sharp work; and it has taken some doing—­and some money.  But I’ve worked it.  Black Steve—­I mean Sir Stephen Orme, the great Sir Stephen—­is under my thumb.  To-night, the night of his triumph, I am going to crack him like an egg.”

“You will ruin him?” she said.