CHAPTER XXII.

Shortly after eight o’clock on the night of Dick’s journey to Yarraman the figure of a woman approached the searcher’s house and knocked softly at the front door.  There was a light burning within, but the knock provoked no response.  The visitor knocked again with more vigour; presently a bolt was withdrawn and the door opened a few inches, and Christina Shine, seeing her visitor, uttered a low cry and staggered back into the centre of the room, throwing the door wide open.  It was Mrs. Hardy who stood upon the threshold.

‘May I come in, my dear?’ she asked in a kindly tone.

Christina, standing with one hand pressed to her throat and her burning eyes fixed intently upon the face of the elder woman, nodded a slow affirmative.  Mrs. Hardy entered, closing the door behind her, and stood for a moment gazing pitifully at the distracted girl, for Chris had a wild hunted look, and weariness and anxiety had almost exhausted her.  She faced her visitor with terror, as if anticipating a blow.

‘My poor girl,’ Mrs. Hardy said gently; ’I suppose you wonder why I have come?’

Again Chris moved her head in vague acquiescence.

’I have heard how heavily this blow has fallen upon you, and my heart bled with pity.  I felt I might be able to comfort you.

Chris put her back with a weak fluttering hand.

’My dear, I am an old woman; I have seen much trouble and have borne some, and I know that hearts break most often in loneliness.’

‘You know the truth?’ asked the girl, through dry lips.

‘I know Richard Haddon’s story.’  ‘And you have not come to—­to—­’

’I have come to offer you all a woman’s sympathy, my girl; to try to help you to be strong.’

Mrs. Hardy took the weary girl in her arms and kissed her pale cheek.

‘You are good!  You are very good!’ murmured Chris brokenly, clinging to her.  But she suddenly thrust herself back from the sheltering arms and uttered a cry of despair.

The door communicating with the next room had been opened and a grim figure crept into the kitchen, the figure of Ephraim Shine.  The man was clad only in a tattered shirt and old moleskins; his face was as gaunt as that of death, and his skin a ghastly yellow.  He moved into the room on his hands and knees, seeking something, and chummered insanely as he scratched at the hard flooring-boards with his claw-like fingers, and peered eagerly into the cracks.  He moved about the room in this way, searching in the corners, dragging his way about with his face close to the floor.

‘I’ll find it, I’ll find it,’ he muttered; ’oh!  I’ll find it.  Rogers is cunnin’, but I’m more cunnin’.  I know where it’s hid, an’ when I get it it’ll be mine—­all mine!

Mrs. Hardy stole close to the girl, and they clasped hands.

‘Is he mad?’ asked the elder woman hoarsely.