When he said, “I am worried about her,” he meant that he was worried about Joan.  If he said, “She would have liked this,” “She” would mean Joan.

“I am worried about her and that blackguard Slotman,” he thought.  “There is something about that man—­snake—­toad—­something uncanny.  She’s there; she has money and he’s out for money.  If I can sit here and tell myself that I have scared Slotman from offending and annoying her again, I am an idiot.  When there’s money to be gained, a man like Slotman will want a lot of scaring off it.”

A week had passed since Marjorie’s visit.

Hugh sent for his housekeeper, Mrs. Morrisey.

“Mrs. Morrisey, I am going to London.”

“Oh, Mr. Alston, when the men are—­”

“The men are all right.  I have to go to London on business.”

“Very queer and restless he’s been,” Mrs. Morrisey thought.  “I never known him like it before.  When I thought he was in love with that pretty little Miss Linden and wanting to marry her, he was not a bit like he is now.  He kept cheerful and smiling, and now; forever on the move.  No sooner does he get here than back to London he wants to go.”

“Shall you be away for long, sir?”

“I don’t know,” said Hugh.  “Perhaps; perhaps not, I can’t say.”

“I see.  Very good, sir.  I’ll see to things, of course.  And about letters, perhaps you won’t want them forwarded as you didn’t last time, and—­”

“I shall want every letter forwarded, the very hour it arrives,” said Hugh quickly.

“Very good, sir.  Where shall I send them to?”

“I don’t know yet.  I’ll wire you an address.”

Yes, he must go to London.  He could not go and watch Joan at Starden, but he could go to London and watch Mr. Philip Slotman.

“What I’ll do is this—­I’ll have a watch kept on that man.  There are private detective chaps who’ll do it for me.  If he goes down to Starden, I’ll be after him hot-foot.  And if he does go there to annoy and insult Joan—­I’ll break his neck!” he added, with cheerful decision.

“And she—­she is going to marry another man, a man she doesn’t love—­she can’t love.  I know she cannot love.”  He added aloud:  “Joan, you don’t love him, my darling, you know you don’t.  You dared not stay and face me that day.  Your words meant nothing.  You may think you despise me, but you don’t:  you want to, my dear, but you can’t; and you can’t because, thank God, you love me!  Oh, fool!  Cheer yourself up, slap yourself on the back.  It doesn’t help you.  She may love you as you boast, but she’ll never marry you.  She wants to hate you, and she’ll keep on wanting to hate, and I believe—­Heaven help me—­that her will is stronger than her heart.  But—­but anyhow, that brute Slotman shan’t worry her while I can crawl about.”

He was driven to the station the following morning.  And now he was in the train for London.

“I’ll find out a firm of detectives and put ’em on Slotman,” he thought, “but first I’ll go and have a look round.  What’s the name of the place?—­Gracebury.”