The brief twilight had turned to darkness before they reached it.  During the last half hour Mercer rode with his hand upon Sybil’s bridle, and she was glad to have it there.  She was not accustomed to riding in the dark.  Moreover, she was very tired, and when at last they turned in through an open gateway to one side of which a solitary lantern had been fixed, she breathed a deep sigh of thankfulness.

She saw the outline of the house but vaguely, but in two windows lights were burning, and as they clattered up a door was thrown open, and a man stood silhouetted for a moment on the threshold.

“Hullo, Curtis!  Here we are!” was Mercer’s greeting.  “Later than I intended, but it’s a far cry from Wallarroo, and we had to take it easy.”

“The best way,” the other said.

He went forward and quietly helped Sybil to dismount.  He did not speak to her as he did so, and she wondered a little at the reserve of his manner.  But the next moment she forgot him at the sight of a hideous young negro who had suddenly appeared at the horses’ heads.

“It’s only Beelzebub,” said the man at her side, in a tired voice, as if it were an effort to speak at all.

She realized that the explanation was intended to be reassuring, and laughed rather tremulously.  Finding Mercer at her side she slipped her hand into his.

He gave it a terrific squeeze.  “Come inside!” he said.  “You are tired.”

They went in, Curtis following.

In a room with a sanded floor that looked pleasantly homely to her English eyes a meal was spread.  The place and everything it contained shone in the lamplight.  She looked around her with a smile of pleasure, notwithstanding her weariness.  And then her eyes fell upon Curtis, and found his fixed upon her.

He averted them instantly, but she had read their expression at a glance—­surprise and compassion—­and her heart gave a curious little throb of dismay.

She turned nevertheless without a pause to Mercer.

“Won’t you introduce me to your friend?” she said.

“What?” said Mercer.  “Oh, that’s Curtis, my foreman.  Curtis, this is my wife.”

Curtis bowed stiffly, but Sybil held out her hand.

“How nice everything looks!” she said.  “I am sure we have you to thank for it.”

“Beelzebub and me,” he said; and again she was struck by the utter lack of animation in his voice.

He was a man of about forty, lean and brown, with an unmistakable air of breeding about him that put her at her ease at once.  His quiet manner was a supreme contrast to Mercer’s roughness.  She was quite sure that he was not colonial born.

He sat at table with them, and waited also, but he did not utter a word except now and again in answer to some brief query from Mercer.  When the meal was over he cleared the table and disappeared.

She looked at Mercer in some surprise as the door closed upon him.