“Well, I’m not sure I’ll tell you yet,” answered Treherne, something of the old mischief coming back into his dark eyes.  “But I’ll tell you something else, which may be connected with it; something I couldn’t tell until my wife had told you about our meeting in the wood.”  His face had grown grave again, and he resumed after a pause: 

“When my wife started to follow her father I advised her to go back first to the house, to leave it by another door and to meet me in the wood in half an hour.  We often made these assignations, of course, and generally thought them great fun, but this time the question was serious, and I didn’t want the wrong thing done in a hurry.  It was a question whether anything could be done to undo an experiment we both vaguely felt to be dangerous, and she especially thought, after reflection, that interference would make things worse.  She thought the old sportsman, having been dared to do something, would certainly not be dissuaded by the very man who had dared him or by a woman whom he regarded as a child.  She left me at last in a sort of despair, but I lingered with a last hope of doing something, and drew doubtfully near to the heart of the wood; and there, instead of the silence I expected, I heard a voice.  It seemed as if the Squire must be talking to himself, and I had the unpleasant fancy that he had already lost his reason in that wood of witchcraft.  But I soon found that if he was talking he was talking with two voices.  Other fancies attacked me, as that the other was the voice of the tree or the voices of the three trees talking together, and with no man near.  But it was not the voice of the tree.  The next moment I knew the voice, for I had heard it twenty times across the table.  It was the voice of that doctor of yours; I heard it as certainly as you hear my voice now.”

After a moment’s silence, he resumed:  “I left the wood, I hardly knew why, and with wild and bewildered feelings; and as I came out into the faint moonshine I saw that old lawyer standing quietly, but staring at me like an owl.  At least, the light touched his red hair with fire, but his square old face was in shadow.  But I knew, if I could have read it, that it was the face of a hanging judge.”

He threw himself on the bench again, smiled a little, and added:  “Only, like a good many hanging judges, I fancy, he was waiting patiently to hang the wrong man.”

“And the right man—­” said Paynter mechanically.  Treherne shrugged his shoulders, sprawling on the ale bench, and played with his empty pot.

IV.  THE CHASE AFTER THE TRUTH