“Then they are safe,” observed Mr. Carlyle, “and Richard may come in.”

“I will go and ascertain whether he is come,” said Barbara.

“Stay where you are, Barbara; I will go myself,” interposed Mr. Carlyle.  “Have the door open when you see us coming up the path.”

Barbara gave a faint cry, and, trembling, clutched the arm of Mr. Carlyle.  “There he is!  See!  Standing out from the trees, just opposite this window.”

Mr. Carlyle turned to Mrs. Hare.  “I shall not bring him in immediately; for if I am to have an interview with him, it must be got over first, that I may go back home to the justices, and keep Mr. Hare all safe.”

He proceeded on his way, gained the trees, and plunged into them; and, leaning against one, stood Richard Hare.  Apart from his disguise, and the false and fierce black whiskers, he was a blue-eyed, fair, pleasant-looking young man, slight, and of middle height, and quite as yielding and gentle as his mother.  In her, this mild yieldingness of disposition was rather a graceful quality; in Richard it was regarded as a contemptible misfortune.  In his boyhood he had been nicknamed Leafy Dick, and when a stranger inquired why, the answer was that, as a leaf was swayed by the wind, so he was swayed by everybody about him, never possessing a will of his own.  In short, Richard Hare, though of an amiable and loving nature, was not over-burdened with what the world calls brains.  Brains he certainly had, but they were not sharp ones.

“Is my mother coming out to me?” asked Richard, after a few interchanged sentences with Mr. Carlyle.

“No.  You are to go indoors.  Your father is away, and the servants are shut up in the kitchen and will not see you.  Though if they did, they could never recognize you in that trim.  A fine pair of whiskers, Richard.”

“Let us go in, then.  I am all in a twitter till I get away.  Am I to have the money?”

“Yes, yes.  But, Richard, your sister says you wish to disclose to me the true history of that lamentable night.  You had better speak while we are here.”

“It was Barbara herself wanted you to hear it.  I think it of little moment.  If the whole place heard the truth from me, it would do no good, for I should get no belief—­not even from you.”

“Try me, Richard, in as few words as possible.”

“Well, there was a row at home about my going so much to Hallijohn’s.  The governor and my mother thought I went after Afy; perhaps I did, and perhaps I didn’t.  Hallijohn had asked me to lend him my gun, and that evening, when I went to see Af—­when I went to see some one—­never mind—­”

“Richard,” interrupted Mr. Carlyle, “there’s an old saying, and it is sound advice:  ‘Tell the whole truth to your lawyer and your doctor.’  If I am to judge whether anything can be attempted for you, you must tell it to me; otherwise, I would rather hear nothing.  It shall be sacred trust.”