“I was wondering if you and I could go round and see her between now and dinner?”

“I think I could.”  There was a doubtful touch in Timmy’s voice.  He knew quite well he ought to stay and help his sister to wash up the tea-things and do certain other little jobs, but he also knew that if he asked Betty to let him off, she would.

“I shan’t be a minute,” he exclaimed, and a moment later Radmore heard the little feet pattering down the carpetless back stairs, and then scampering up again.

Timmy ran in breathlessly.  “It’s all right!” he exclaimed, “I can go with you—­Mrs. Crofton has got The Trellis House—­I’ll show you the way there.”

“Show me the way there?” repeated Radmore.  “Why, I knew The Trellis House from garret to cellar before you were born, young man.”

In the hall Timmy gave a queer, side-long look at his companion.  “Do you think we’d better take Flick?” he asked doubtfully, “Mrs. Crofton doesn’t like dogs.”

“Oh, yes, she does,” Radmore spoke carelessly.  “Flick was bred by Colonel Crofton.  I think she’ll be very pleased to see him.”

Timmy would have hotly resented being called cruel, and to animals he was most humane, yet somehow he had enjoyed Mrs. Crofton’s terror the other night, and he was not unwilling to see a repetition of it.  And so the three set out—­Timmy, Radmore, and Flick.  Somehow it was a comfort to the grown-up man to have the child with him.  Had he been alone he would have felt like a ghost walking up the quiet, empty village street.  The presence of the child and the dog made him feel so real.

The two trudged on in silence for a bit, and then Radmore asked in a low voice:—­“Is that busy-body, Miss Pendarth, still alive?”

They were passing by Rose Cottage as he spoke, and Timmy at once replied in a shrill voice:—­“Yes, of course she is.”  And then, as if as an afterthought, he remarked slyly:—­“Rosamund often says she wishes she were dead.  Do you hate her, too?”

“Hate’s a big word,” said Radmore thoughtfully, “but there was very little love lost between me and that good lady in the old days.”

They passed the lych-gate of the churchyard, and then, following a sudden impulse, Radmore turned into the post-office.

Yes, his instinct had been right, for here, at any rate, was an old friend, but a friend who, from a young man, had become old and grey.  Grasping the postmaster, Jim Cobbett, warmly by the hand Radmore exclaimed:—­“I’m glad to find you well and hearty, Cobbett.”  There came the surprised:  “Why, it’s Mr. Radmore to be sure!  How’s the world been treating you, sir?”

“Better than I deserve, Cobbett.”

“Can you stay a minute, sir—­Missus would like to see you, too?” The speaker opened a door out of the tiny shop, and Radmore, followed by Timmy and Flick, walked into a cosy living-room, where an old dog got up and growled at them.