In point of fact, he had not informed any one of his coming.  He had prepared a little surprise.  The chief motive of his return was to get Wenna to cancel for ever that unlucky letter of release he had sent her, which he had done more or less successfully in subsequent correspondence; but he had also hoped to introduce a little romanticism into his meeting with her.  He would enter Eglosilyan on foot.  He would wander down to the rocks at the mouth of the harbor on the chance of finding Wenna there.  Might he not hear her humming to herself, as she sat and sewed, some snatch of “Your Polly has never been false, she declares”? or was that the very last ballad in the world she would now think of singing?  Then the delight of regarding again the placid, bright face and earnest eyes, of securing once more a perfect understanding between them, and their glad return to the inn!

All this had been spoiled by the appearance of this young man:  he loved him none the more for that.

“I suppose you haven’t got a trap waiting for you?” said Trelyon with cold politeness.  “I can drive you over if you like.”

He could do no less than make the offer:  the other had no alternative but to accept.  Old Mrs. Trelyon heard this compact made with considerable dread.

Indeed, it was a dismal drive over to Eglosilyan, bright as the forenoon was.  The old lady did her best to be courteous to Mr. Roscorla and cheerful with her grandson, but she was oppressed by the belief that it was only her presence that had so far restrained the two men from giving vent to the rage and jealousy that filled their hearts.

The conversation kept up was singular.

“Are you going to remain in England long, Roscorla?” said the younger of the two men, making an unnecessary cut at one of the two horses he was driving.

“Don’t know yet.  Perhaps I may.”

“Because,” said Trelyon with angry impertinence, “I suppose if you do, you’ll have to look round for a housekeeper.”

The insinuation was felt; and Roscorla’s eyes looked anything but pleasant as he answered, “You forget I’ve got Mrs. Cornish to look after my house.”

“Oh, Mrs. Cornish is not much of a companion for you.”

“Men seldom want to make companions of their housekeepers,” was the retort, uttered rather hotly.

“But sometimes they wish to have the two offices combined, for economy’s sake.”

At this juncture Mrs. Trelyon struck in, somewhat wildly, with a remark about an old ruined house which seemed to have had at one time a private still inside:  the danger was staved off for the moment.  “Harry,” she said, “mind what you are about:  the horses seem very fresh.”

“Yes, they like a good run:  I suspect they’ve had precious little to do since I left Cornwall.”

Did she fear that the young man was determined to throw them into a ditch or down a precipice, with the wild desire of killing his rival at any cost?  If she had known the whole state of affairs between them—­the story of the emerald ring, for example—­she would have understood at least the difficulty experienced by these two men in remaining decently civil toward each other.