“You lean towards Socialism?”

“Christian Socialism if you know what that signifies.”

“I have an idea.  A very improving doctrine, no doubt.”

They dismounted, and began the ascent of the hillside by a path which wound among trees.  Not far from the summit they came to a bench which afforded a good view.

“Suppose we stop here,” Glazzard suggested.  “It doesn’t look as if we should be disturbed.”

“As you please.”

“By-the-bye, you have abbreviated your name, I think?”

The other again looked uneasy and clicked with his tongue.

“You had better say what you want with me, Mr. Marks,” he replied, impatiently.

“My business is with Arthur James Northway.  If you are he, I think I can do you a service.”

“Why should you do me a service?”

“From a motive I will explain if all else is satisfactory.”

“How did you find out where I was?”

“By private means which are at my command.”  Glazzard adopted the tone of a superior, but was still suave.  “My information is pretty complete.  Naturally, you are still looking about for employment.  I can’t promise you that, but I daresay you wouldn’t object to earn a five-pound note?”

“If it’s anything—­underhand, I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

“Nothing you can object to.  In fact, it’s an affair that concerns you more than any one else.—­I believe you can’t find any trace of your wife?”

Northway turned his head, and peered at his neighbour with narrow eyes.

“It’s about her, is it?”

“Yes, about her.”

Strangely enough, Glazzard could not feel as if this conversation greatly interested him.  He kept gazing at the Suspension Bridge, at the woods beyond, at the sluggish river, and thought more of the view than of his interlocutor.  The last words fell from his lips idly.

“You know where she is?” Northway inquired.

“Quite well.  I have seen her often of late—­from a distance.  To prove I am not mistaken, look at this portrait and tell me if you recognize the person?”

He took from an inner pocket a mutilated photograph; originally of cabinet size, it was cut down to an oval, so that only the head remained.  The portrait had been taken in London between Lilian’s return from Paris and her arrival at Polterham.  Glazzard was one of the few favoured people who received a copy.

Northway examined it and drew in his cheeks, breathing hard.

“There’s no mistake, I think?”

The reply was a gruff negative.

“I suppose you do care about discovering her?”

The answer was delayed.  Glazzard read it, however, m the man’s countenance, which expressed various emotions.

“She has married again—­eh?”

“First, let me ask you another question.  Have you seen her relatives?”

“Yes, I have.”