“Can you do anything for a poor little girl in the village here who is ’in trouble’?—­you know what I mean.  It is such a terrible crime in this part of the country, and she looks so wretched and frightened, poor little thing!  She is twenty years old.  She wants a hiding-place for her misfortune, and somewhere to go when it is over.  Nobody, she says, will have anything to do with her where they know; and, really, I have noticed for a long time how white and wretched she looks, with great black frightened eyes.  I don’t like to apply to our Rector, for though he is a good fellow in many ways, he has such strong opinions; and, of course, Horace could do nothing.  I would like to do something for her, and I could spare a little money, but I can’t find a place for her to go, and that makes it difficult.  She seems to be haunted, too, by the idea that wherever she goes it will come out.  Isn’t it dreadful?  Do do something, if you can.  I am rather anxious about George.  I hope the dear boy is well.  If you are passing his club some day you might look in and just ask after him.  He is sometimes so naughty about writing.  I wish we could see you here, dear Grig; the country is looking beautiful just now—­the oak-trees especially—­and the apple-blossom isn’t over, but I suppose you are too busy.  How is Helen Bellew?  Is she in town?

“Your affectionate cousin,
“Margery Pendyce.”

It was four o’clock this same afternoon when the second groom, very much out of breath, informed the butler that there was a fire at Peacock’s farm.  The butler repaired at once to the library.  Mr. Pendyce, who had been on horseback all the morning, was standing in his riding-clothes, tired and depressed, before the plan of Worsted Skeynes.

“What do you want, Bester?”

“There is a fire at Peacock’s farm, sir.”  Mr. Pendyce stared.

“What?” he said.  “A fire in broad daylight!  Nonsense!”

“You can see the flames from the front, sir.”  The worn and querulous look left Mr. Pendyce’s face.

“Ring the stable-bell!” he said.  “Tell them all to run with buckets and ladders.  Send Higson off to Cornmarket on the mare.  Go and tell Mr. Barter, and rouse the village.  Don’t stand there—­God bless me!  Ring the stable-bell!” And snatching up his riding-crop and hat, he ran past the butler, closely followed by the spaniel John.

Over the stile and along the footpath which cut diagonally across a field of barley he moved at a stiff trot, and his spaniel, who had not grasped the situation, frolicked ahead with a certain surprise.  The Squire was soon out of breath—­it was twenty years or more since he had run a quarter of a mile.  He did not, however, relax his speed.  Ahead of him in the distance ran the second groom; behind him a labourer and a footman.  The stable-bell at Worsted Skeynes began to ring.  Mr. Pendyce crossed the stile and struck into the lane, colliding with the Rector, who was running, too, his face flushed to the colour of tomatoes.  They ran on, side by side.