down the village with this
here face. I'll get the old woman to do it up in brown paper and
vinegar when I go home, and I'll stay abed and smoke until dark. You
won't come afore dark, wilt you?"

"No; I don't want to be recognized; and you must be prepared to come
out with me when I do. I'll disguise myself. Ah! suppose I disguise
myself in men's clothes? You won't mind, will you?"

"By gosh! no, if you don't. Men's clothes! What a rum one you are,
Miss Silver? Doosed good-looking little feller you'll make. But why
are you so skeery about it?"

"Why? Need you ask? Would Sir Everard permit me to remain in his
house one hour if he suspected I was his enemy's friend? Have you any
message to deliver to my lady before we part?"

"No. She'll send a message to me during the day, or I'm mistaken. If
she don't, why, I'll send one back with you to-night. By-bye, Mrs.
Parmalee that is to be. Take care of yourself until to-night."

The gentleman walked down the stair-way alone toward a side entrance.
The lady stood on the landing above, looking after him with a bitter,
sneering smile.

"Mrs. Parmalee, indeed! You blind, conceited fool! Twist you round my
little finger, can I? Yes, you great, hulking simpleton, and ten times
better men! Let me worm your secret out of you--let me squeeze my
sponge dry, and then see how I'll fling you into your native gutter!"

Mr. Parmalee, on his way out, stopped at the pretty rustic lodge and
bathed his swollen and discolored visage. The lodge-keeper's wife was
all sympathy and questions. How on earth did it happen?

"Run up against the 'lectric telegraph, ma'am," replied Mr. Parmalee,
sulkily; "and there was a message coming full speed, and it knocked me
over. Morning. Much obliged."

He walked away. Outside the gates he paused and shook his clinched
fist menacingly at the noble old house.

"I'll pay you out, my fine feller, if ever I get a chance! You're a
very great man, and a very proud man, Sir Everard Kingsland, and you
own a fine fortune and a haughty, handsome wife, and G. W. Parmalee's
no more than the mud under your feet. Very well--we'll see! 'Every
dog has his day,' and 'the longest lane has its turning,' and you're
near about the end of your tether, and George Parmalee has you and your
fine lady under his thumb--under his thumb--and he'll crush you,
sir--yes, by Heaven, he'll crush you, and strike you back blow for
blow!"

True to his word, ho