e shrugged her shoulders. "But all that sort of thing is
over now."

"Did it look so like it this afternoon?"

"Didn't we agree that I was--marriageable? Didn't you say that being
marriageable was an asset--even though one didn't marry?" She came
suddenly closer to me. "I've no right to ask you to trust me. I didn't
trust you--I deceived you deliberately, carefully, grossly--and yet I
expected you to help me--and took your help with very little thanks.
Still--you stayed. Stay now, and don't think too badly."

"I don't think badly at all--why, you know it! But I must have my fun
out of it."

"So you shall, Austin!" she laughed, with one of her sudden transitions
to gayety. "I'm the fox, and you're the huntsman! Well, I'll try to give
you a good run for your money--if you can follow the scent!"

"Through all your doubles?"

"Through all the doubles that lead me to my--earth!"

A dainty merry little face looked in at my window. "Oh, I've tracked you
at last, Jenny!"

"Is everybody tracking me?" asked Jenny, her eyes mischievously mocking.
"Run round to the door and come in, Margaret." She added quickly to me,
"I'm glad she didn't come when they were here. I'm saving her up till
to-morrow!"

The child came in and ran to Jenny. "Oh, what a delightful little room,
Mr. Austin! Did my father ever come here?"

"Yes, pretty often," I answered. "We were friends, you know."

"Yes, and he hadn't many friends. Had he, Jenny?"

Jenny stooped down and kissed her. "Come, we'll go for our walk--to look
at Hatcham Ford," she said.

"Shall we go inside?"

"It's all shut up," said Jenny.

CHAPTER XX

LIVING PIECES

Jenny had now on the board all the pieces needed for her great
combination--embracing, as it did, the restoration of her own position,
the regaining of Catsford's loyal allegiance, the extension of her
territory and influence in the county, and "doing the handsome thing by"
Margaret. Nobody who watched her closely--both what she did and the
hints of her mind which she let fall--could long doubt which of these
objects was paramount with her. It was the last. The others were, in a
sense, no more than means to it; though in themselves irresistible to
her temperament, necessary to her happiness, and instinctively sought by
her, yet in the combination they stood subsidiary to the master-stroke
that was to crown her game and redeem the pledge which she had given to
Leonard Octon as he lay dying. But doing