The one public carriage of Medford, a sort of four-seated carryall, that met all the trains at the depot, had driven to the gate at the foot of the yard, and had pulled up, the horses reeking and blowing.  Even before it had stopped, a tall, square-shouldered man had alighted, but it was not until he was half-way up the gravel walk that Lloyd had recognised him.  Bennett caught sight of her at the same moment, and strode swiftly across the lawn and came into the breakfast-room by one of the open French windows.  At once the room seemed to shrink in size; his first step upon the floor—­a step that was almost a stamp, so eager it was, so masterful and resolute—­set the panes of glass jarring in their frames.  Never had Bennett seemed more out of place than in this almost dainty breakfast-room, with its small, feminine appurtenances, its fragile glassware, its pots of flowers and growing plants.  The incongruous surroundings emphasized his every roughness, his every angularity.  Against its background of delicate, mild tints his figure loomed suddenly colossal; the great span of his chest and shoulders seemed never so huge.  His face; the great, brutal jaw, with its aggressive, bullying, forward thrust; the close-gripped lips, the contracted forehead, the small eyes, marred with the sharply defined cast, appeared never so harsh, never so massive, never so significant of the resistless, crude force of the man, his energy, his overpowering determination.  As he towered there before her, one hand gripped upon a chair-back, it seemed to her that the hand had but to close to crush the little varnished woodwork to a splinter, and when he spoke Lloyd could imagine that the fine, frail china of the table vibrated to the deep-pitched bass of his voice.

Lloyd had only to look at him once to know that Bennett was at the moment aroused and agitated to an extraordinary degree.  His face was congested and flaming.  Under his frown his eyes seemed flashing veritable sparks; his teeth were set; in his temple a vein stood prominent and throbbing.  But Lloyd was not surprised.  Bennett had, no doubt, heard of Ferriss’s desperate illness.  Small wonder he was excited when the life of his dearest friend was threatened.  Lloyd could ignore her own quarrel with Bennett at such a moment.

“I am so sorry,” she began, “that you could not have known sooner.  But you remember you left no address.  There was—­”

“What are you doing here?” he broke in abruptly.  “What is the use—­why—­” he paused for a moment to steady his voice—­“you can’t stay here,” he went on.  “Don’t you know the risk you are running?  You can’t stay here another moment.”

“That,” answered Lloyd, smiling, “is a matter that is interesting chiefly to me.  I suppose you know that, Mr. Bennett.”

“I know that you are risking your life and—­”

“And that, too, is my affair.”