Captain Hagberd jerked himself free, and began to back away shrinkingly.  “For the present,” he muttered, in a crestfallen tone.

“What’s the matter with him?” The stranger addressed Bessie with the utmost familiarity, in a deliberate, explanatory tone.  “I didn’t want to startle the old man.”  He lowered his voice as though he had known her for years.  “I dropped into a barber’s on my way, to get a twopenny shave, and they told me there he was something of a character.  The old man has been a character all his life.”

Captain Hagberd, daunted by the allusion to his clothing, had retreated inside, taking his spade with him; and the two at the gate, startled by the unexpected slamming of the door, heard the bolts being shot, the snapping of the lock, and the echo of an affected gurgling laugh within.

“I didn’t want to upset him,” the man said, after a short silence.  “What’s the meaning of all this?  He isn’t quite crazy.”

“He has been worrying a long time about his lost son,” said Bessie, in a low, apologetic tone.

“Well, I am his son.”

“Harry!” she cried—­and was profoundly silent.

“Know my name?  Friends with the old man, eh?”

“He’s our landlord,” Bessie faltered out, catching hold of the iron railing.

“Owns both them rabbit-hutches, does he?” commented young Hagberd, scornfully; “just the thing he would be proud of.  Can you tell me who’s that chap coming to-morrow?  You must know something of it.  I tell you, it’s a swindle on the old man—­nothing else.”

She did not answer, helpless before an insurmountable difficulty, appalled before the necessity, the impossibility and the dread of an explanation in which she and madness seemed involved together.

“Oh—­I am so sorry,” she murmured.

“What’s the matter?” he said, with serenity.  “You needn’t be afraid of upsetting me.  It’s the other fellow that’ll be upset when he least expects it.  I don’t care a hang; but there will be some fun when he shows his mug to-morrow.  I don’t care that for the old man’s pieces, but right is right.  You shall see me put a head on that coon—­whoever he is!”

He had come nearer, and towered above her on the other side of the railings.  He glanced at her hands.  He fancied she was trembling, and it occurred to him that she had her part perhaps in that little game that was to be sprung on his old man to-morrow.  He had come just in time to spoil their sport.  He was entertained by the idea—­scornful of the baffled plot.  But all his life he had been full of indulgence for all sorts of women’s tricks.  She really was trembling very much; her wrap had slipped off her head.  “Poor devil!” he thought.  “Never mind about that chap.  I daresay he’ll change his mind before to-morrow.  But what about me?  I can’t loaf about the gate til the morning.”

She burst out:  “It is you—­you yourself that he’s waiting for.  It is you who come to-morrow.”