‘I mean—­were you employed—­to bring me to Mr. Pomeroy’s?’

’I employed?  To bring you to Mr. Pomeroy’s?  Good heavens! ma’am, what do you take me for?’ the tutor cried in righteous indignation.  ’No, ma’am, certainly not!  I am not that kind of man!’ And then blurting out the truth in his surprise, ’Why, ‘twas Mr. Dunborough!’ he said.  ’And like him too!  Heaven keep us from him!’

‘Mr. Dunborough?’ she exclaimed.

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Oh,’ she said, in a helpless, foolish kind of way.  ’It was Mr. Dunborough, was it?’ And she begged his pardon.  And did it too so humbly, in a voice so broken by feeling and gratitude, that, bad man as he was, his soul revolted from the work he was upon; and for an instant, he stood still, the lanthorn swinging in his hand.

She misinterpreted the movement.  ‘Are we right?’ she said, anxiously.  ‘You don’t think that we are out of the road?’ Though the night was dark, and it was difficult to discern, anything beyond the circle of light thrown by the lanthorn, it struck her that the avenue they were traversing was not the one by which she had approached the house two nights before.  The trees seemed to stand farther from one another and to be smaller.  Or was it her fancy?

But it was not that had moved him to stand; for in a moment, with a curious sound between a groan and a curse he led the way on, without answering her.  Fifty paces brought them to the gate and the road.  Thomasson held up his lanthorn and looked over the gate.

‘Where is the carriage?’ she whispered, startled by the darkness and silence.

‘It should be here,’ he answered, his voice betraying his perplexity.  ‘It should be here at this gate.  But I—­I don’t see it.’

‘Would it have lights?’ she asked anxiously.  He had opened the gate by this time, and as she spoke they passed through, and stood together looking up and down the road.  The moon was obscured, and the lanthorn’s rays were of little use to find a carriage which was not there.

‘It should be here, and it should have lights,’ he said in evident dismay.  ’I don’t know what to think of it.  I—­ha!  What is that?  It is coming, I think.  Yes, I hear it.  The coachman must have drawn off a little for some reason, and now he has seen the lanthorn.’

He had only the sound of wheels to go upon, but he proved to be right; she uttered a sigh of relief as the twin lights of a carriage apparently approaching round a bend of the road broke upon them.  The lights drew near and nearer, and the tutor waved his lamp.  For a second the driver appeared to be going to pass them; then, as Mr. Thomasson again waved his lanthorn and shouted, he drew up.

‘Halloa!’ he said.

Mr. Thomasson did not answer, but with a trembling hand opened the door and thrust the girl in.  ‘God bless you!’ she murmured; ‘and—­’ He slammed the door, cutting short the sentence.

‘Well?’ the driver said, looking down at him, his face in shadow; ’I am—­’