“No, no, McKenzie, I am sure he never saw me before.  I insist on accompanying you.”

“Your excitement, Rintoul, will betray you.  Let me go alone.  I can question him without rousing his suspicions.  Remember, she is only a gypsy to him.”

“He will learn nothing from me.  I am quite calm now.”

“Rintoul, I warn you your manner will betray you, and to-morrow it will be roared through the countryside that your bride ran away from the Spittal in a gypsy dress, and had to be brought back by force.”

The altercation may have lasted another minute, but the suddenness with which I learned Babbie’s secret had left my ears incapable of learning more.  I daresay the two men started when they found me at my door, but they did not remember, as few do remember who have the noisy day to forget it in, how far the voice carries in the night.

They came as suddenly on me as I on them, for though they had given unintentional notice of their approach, I had lost sight of the speakers in their amazing words.  Only a moment did young McKenzie’s anxiety to be spokesman give me to regard Lord Rintoul.  I saw that he was a thin man and tall, straight in the figure, but his head began to sink into his shoulders and not very steady on them.  His teeth had grip of his under-lip, as if this was a method of controlling his agitation, and he was opening and shutting his hands restlessly.  He had a dog with him which I was to meet again.

“Well met, Mr. Ogilvy,” said McKenzie, who knew me slightly, having once acted as judge at a cock-fight in the school-house.  “We were afraid we should have to rouse you.”

“You will step inside?” I asked awkwardly, and while I spoke I was wondering how long it would be before the earl’s excitement broke out.

“It is not necessary,” McKenzie answered hurriedly.  “My friend and I (this is Mr. McClure) have been caught in the mist without a lamp, and we thought you could perhaps favor us with one.”

“Unfortunately I have nothing of the kind,” I said, and the state of mind I was in is shown by my answering seriously.

“Then we must wish you a good-night and manage as best we can,” he said; and then before he could touch, with affected indifference, on the real object of their visit, the alarmed earl said angrily, “McKenzie, no more of this.”

“No more of this delay, do you mean, McClure?” asked McKenzie, and then, turning to me said, “By the way, Mr. Ogilvy, I think this is our second meeting to-night.  I met you on the road a few hours ago with your wife.  Or was it your daughter?”

“It was neither, Mr. McKenzie,” I answered, with the calmness of one not yet recovered from a shock.  “It was a gypsy girl.”

“Where is she now?” cried Rintoul feverishly; but McKenzie, speaking loudly at the same time, tried to drown his interference as one obliterates writing by writing over it.

“A strange companion for a schoolmaster,” he said.  “What became of her?”