“But, my good fellow, what in heaven’s name is this awful thing that even I don’t know?” demanded the squire.  “Don’t tell me there has ever been any damn trouble with another woman!”

“No—­no!” Dick broke into a laugh that was inexpressibly painful to hear.  “There has never been any other woman for me.  What do I care for women?  Do you think because I’ve made a blasted fool of myself over one woman that I—­”

“Shut up, Dick!” Curtly the squire checked him.  “You’re not to say it—­even to me.  Tell me this other thing about yourself—­the thing I don’t know!”

“Oh, that!  That’s nothing, sir, nothing—­at least you won’t think it so.  It’s only that during the past few years some books have been published by one named Dene Strange that have attracted attention in certain quarters.”

“I’ve read ’em all,” said the squire.  “Well?”

“I wrote them,” said Dick; “that’s all.”

“You!” Fielding stared.  “You, Dick!”

“Yes, I. I meant to have told you, but so long as my boy lived, my job seemed to be here, so I kept it to myself.  And then—­when she came—­she told me she hated the man who wrote those books for being cynical—­and merciless.  So I wrote another to make her change her mind about me before she knew.  It is only just published.  And she found out before she read it.  That’s all,” Dick said again with the shadow of a smile.  “She found out this evening.  It was a shock to her—­naturally.  It’s been a succession of obstacles all through—­a perpetual struggle against odds.  Well, it’s over.  At least we know what we’re up against now.  There will be no more illusions of any sort from to-day on.”  He paused, stood a moment as if bracing himself, then turned.  “Well, I’m going, sir.  Come if you really must, but—­I don’t advise it.”

“I am coming,” said the squire briefly.  His hand went from Dick’s shoulder to his arm and gave it a hard squeeze.  “Confound you!  What do you take me for?” he said.

Dick’s hand came swiftly to his.  “I take you for the best friend a man ever had, sir,” he said.

“Pooh!” said the squire.

CHAPTER IX

THE FREE PARDON

Ten minutes later they went down the dripping avenue in the squire’s little car.  The drifting fog made an inky blackness of the night, and progress was very slow under the trees.

“We should be quicker walking,” said Dick impatiently.

“It’ll be better when we reach the open road,” said Fielding, frowning at the darkness.

The light at the lodge-gates flung a wide glare through the mist, and he steered for it with more assurance.  They passed through and turned into the road.

And here the squire pulled up with a jerk, for immediately in front of them another light shone.

“What the devil is that, Dick?”

“It’s another car,” said Dick and jumped out.  “Hullo, there!  Anything the matter?” he called.