“No.  I’m glad you dug him out, Miles.  It was clever of you.”

“It will give Monkshaven something to talk about, anyway”—­whimsically.

“I suppose”—­the toe of Sara’s narrow foot was busily tracing a pattern on the carpet—­“I suppose you don’t know why he shuts himself up like that at Far End?”

“No, I don’t,” he answered.  “But I’d wager it’s for some better reason than people give him credit for.  Or it may be merely a preference for his own society.  Anyway, it is no business of ours.”  Then, swiftly softening the suggestion of reproof contained in his last sentence, he added:  “Don’t encourage me to gossip, Sara.  When a man’s tied by the leg, as I am, it’s all he can do to curb a tendency towards tattling village scandal like some garrulous old woman.”

It was evident that the presence of visitors was inflicting a considerable strain on Herrick’s endurance, and, as though by common consent, the little party broke up shortly after tea.

Molly expressed her intention of accompanying Mrs. Maynard back to Greenacres—­the beautiful house which the latter had had built to her own design, overlooking the bay—­in order to inspect the pretty widow’s recent purchase of a new motor-car.

Trent turned to Sara with a smile.

“Then it devolves on me to see you safely home, Miss Tennant, may I?”

She nodded permission, and they set off through the high-hedged lane, Sara hurrying along at top speed.

For a few minutes Trent strode beside her in silence.  Then: 

“Are you catching a train?” he inquired mildly.  “Or is it only that you want to be rid of my company in the shortest possible time?”

She coloured, moderating her pace with an effort.  Once again the odd nervousness engendered by his presence had descended on her.  It was as though something in the man’s dominating personality strung all her nerves to a high tension of consciousness, and she felt herself overwhelmingly sensible of his proximity.

He smiled down at her.

“Then—­if you’re not in any hurry to get home—­will you let me take you round by Crabtree Moor?  It’s part of a small farm of mine, and I want a word with my tenant.”

Sara acquiesced, and, Trent, having speedily transacted the little matter of business with his tenant, they made their way across a stretch of wild moorland which intersected the cultivated fields lying on either hand.

In the dusk of the evening, with the wan light of the early moon deepening the shadows and transforming the clumps of furze into strange, unrecognizable shapes of darkness, it was an eerie enough place.  Sara shivered a little, instinctively moving closer to her companion.  And then, as they rounded a furze-crowned hummock, out of the hazy twilight, loping along on swift, padding feet, emerged the figure of a man.

With a muttered curse he swerved aside, but Trent’s arm shot out, and, catching him by the shoulder, he swung him round so that he faced them.