“Thank Heaven the mystery’s read now, an’ us can see how Miller had his eyes ’pon ‘e both all along an’ just waited for the critical stroke,” said Mrs. Blanchard.  “Sure I’ve knawed him these many years an’ never could onderstand his hard way in this; but now all’s clear.”

“He might have saved us a world of trouble and a sea o’ tears if he’d awnly spoken sooner, whether or no,” murmured Chris, but Will would tolerate no unfriendly criticism.

“He’m a gert man, wi’ his awn way o’ doin’ things, like all gert men,” he burst out; “an’ ban’t for any man to call un in question.  He knawed the hard stuff I was made of and let me bide accordin’.  An’ now get your bonnets on, the lot of ’e, for I’m gwaine this instant moment to Monks Barton.”

They followed him in a breathless procession, as he hurried across the farmyard.

“Rap to the door quick, dear heart,” said Phoebe, “or I’ll be cryin’ again.”

“No more rappin’ after thicky butivul letter,” answered Will.  “Us’ll gaw straight in.”

“You walk fust, Phoebe—­’tis right you should,” declared Mrs. Blanchard.  “Then Will can follow ‘e; an’ me an’ Chris—­us’ll walk ’bout for a bit, till you beckons from window.”

“Cheer up, Phoebe,” cried Will.  “Trouble’s blawed awver for gude an’ all now by the look of it.  ’Tis plain sailing hencefarrard, thank God, that is, if a pair o’ strong arms, working morning an’ night for Miller, can bring it about.”

So they went together, where Mr. Lyddon waited nervously within; and Damaris and Chris walked beside the river.

Upon his island sat the anchorite Muscovy duck as of yore.  He was getting old.  He still lived apart and thought deeply about affairs; but his conclusions he never divulged.

Yet another had been surprised into unutterable excitement during that afternoon.  John Grimbal found the fruit of long desire tumble into his hand at last, as Major Tremayne made his announcement.  The officer was spending a fortnight at the Red House, for his previous friendship with John Grimbal had ripened.

“By Jove!  Tom Newcombe, by all that’s wonderful!” he exclaimed, as Will swung past him down the hill to happiness.

“That’s not his name.  It’s Blanchard.  He’s a young fool of a farmer, and Lord knows what he’s got to be so cock-a-hoop about.  Up the hill they’re selling every stick he’s got at auction.  He’s ruined.”

“He might be ruined, indeed, if I liked.  ‘Tom Newcombe’ he called himself when he was with us.”

“A soldier!”

“He certainly was, and my servant; about the most decent, straightforward, childlike chap that ever I saw.”

“God!”

“You’re surprised.  But it’s a fact.  That’s Newcombe all right.  You couldn’t forget a face and a laugh like his.  The handsomest man I’ve ever seen, bar none.  He borrowed a suit of my clothes, the beggar, when he vanished.  But a week later I had the things back with a letter.  He trusted me that far.  I tried to trace him, of course, but was not sorry I failed.”