The man at her side was troubled into unnatural silence.  He had hoped to find an ally in his cousin’s husband, and now what should he do?  He had concluded that as an honest man he had done his duty when he had written to Woodburn; but now as a man of honour what should he say to James Penhallow?  To conceal from his host what he had done was the obvious business-like course.  This troubled a man who was usually able to see his way straight on all matters of social conduct and was sensitive on points of honour.  While Ann sat still and wondered that her guest was so long silent, he was finding altogether unpleasant his conclusion that he must be frank with Penhallow.  He felt sure, however, that Ann would naturally be on his side.  He introduced the matter lightly with, “I chanced to see in the village a black man who is said to be a vagabond scamp.  He is called Josiah—­a runaway slave, I fancy.”

Ann sat up in her chair.  “Who said he was a scamp?”

“Oh, a man named Lamb.”  Then he suddenly remembered Mr. Swallow’s characterization, and added, “not a very trustworthy witness, I presume.”

Ann laughed.  “Peter Lamb!  He is a drunken, loafing fellow, who to his good fortune chances to have been James’s foster-brother.  As concerns Josiah, he turned up here some years ago, got work in the stables, and was set up by James as the village barber.  No one knew whence he came.  I did, of course, suspect him to be a runaway.  He is honest and industrious.  Last year I was ill when James was absent.  We have only maids in the house, and when I was recovering Josiah carried me up and downstairs until James returned.  A year after he came, Leila had an accident.  Josiah stopped her horse and got badly hurt—­” Then with quick insight, she added, “What interest have you in our barber, George?  Is it possible you know Josiah?”

Escape from truthful reply was impossible.  “Yes, I do.  He is the property of my friend and neighbour Woodburn.  I knew him at once—­the man had lost three fingers—­he did not see me.”

“Well!” she said coldly, “what next, George Grey?”

“I must inform his master.  As a Southern woman you, of course, see that no other course is possible.  It is unpleasant, but your sense of right must make you agree with me.”

She returned, speaking slowly, “I do wish you would not do it, George.”  Then she said quickly, “Have you taken any steps in this matter?”

He was fairly cornered.  “Yes, I wrote to Woodburn.  He will be here in a couple of days.  I am sure he will lose no time—­and will take legal measures at once to reclaim his property.”

“I suppose it is all right,” she said despairingly, “but I am more than sorry—­what James will say I do not know.  I hope he will not be called on to act—­under the law he may.”

“When does he return?” said Grey.  “I shall, of course, be frank with him.”

“That will be advisable.  He may be absent for a week longer, or so he writes.  I leave you to your cigar.  I am tired, and to-morrow is Sunday.  Shall you go to church?”