“Never,” said Mr. Carlyle.  “Do you know her well?” he deliberately added.

“I never knew her at all, if you mean Afy Hallijohn.  Why should you think I did?  I never heard of her till Tom Herbert amused me with the history.”

Mr. Carlyle most devoutly wished he could tell whether the man before him was speaking the truth or falsehood.  He continued,—­

“Afy’s favors—­I speak in no invidious sense—­I mean her smiles and chatter—­were pretty freely dispersed, for she was heedless and vain.  Amidst others who got the credit for occasional basking in her rays, was a gentleman of the name of Thorn.  Was it not yourself?”

Captain Thorn stroked his moustache with an air that seemed to say he could boast of his share of such baskings:  in short, as if he felt half inclined to do it.  “Upon my word,” he simpered, “you do me too much honor; I cannot confess to having been favored by Miss Afy.”

“Then she was not the—­the damsel you speak of, who drove you—­if I understand aright—­from the locality?” resumed Mr. Carlyle, fixing his eyes upon him, so as to take in every tone of the answer and shade of countenance as he gave it.

“I should think not, indeed.  It was a married lady, more’s the pity; young, pretty, vain and heedless, as you represent this Afy.  Things went smoother after a time, and she and her husband—­a stupid country yeoman—­became reconciled; but I have been ashamed of it since I have grown wiser, and I do not care ever to be recognized as the actor in it, or to have it raked up against me.”

Captain Thorn rose and took a somewhat hasty leave.  Was he, or was he not, the man?  Mr. Carlyle could not solve the doubt.

Mr. Dill came in as he disappeared, closed the door, and advanced to his master, speaking in an under tone.

“Mr. Archibald, has it struck you that the gentleman just gone out may be the Lieutenant Thorn you once spoke to me about—­he who had used to gallop over from Swainson to court Afy Hallijohn?”

“It has struck me so, most forcibly,” replied Mr. Carlyle.  “Dill, I would give five hundred pounds out of my pocket this moment to be assured of the fact—­if he is the same.”

“I have seen him several times since he has been staying with the Herberts,” pursued the old gentleman, “and my doubts have naturally been excited as to whether it could be the man in question.  Curious enough, Bezant, the doctor, was over here yesterday from Swainson; and as I was walking with him, arm-in-arm, we met Captain Thorn.  The two recognized each other and bowed, merely as distant acquaintances.  ’Do you know that gentleman?’ said I to Bezant.  ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘it is Mr. Frederick.’  ‘Mr. Frederick with something added on to it,’ said I; ’his name is Thorn.’  ‘I know that,’ returned Bezant; ’but when he was in Swainson some years ago, he chose to drop the Thorn, and the town in general knew him only as Mr. Frederick.’  ‘What was he doing