o by talking to your villagers?"

Mr. Hurd pointed with his whip up and down the country lane.

"This is the village of Thorpe, sir," he answered. "There are no poor,
there is no public-house, and there, within a few hundred yards of the
farthest cottage," he added, pointing to the end of the street, "is the
church. You are not needed here. That is the plain truth."

The young man looked up and down, at the flower-embosomed cottages, with
their thatched roofs and trim appearance, at the neatly cut hedges, the
well-kept road, the many signs of prosperity. He looked at the little
grey church standing in its ancient walled churchyard, where the road
divided, a very delightful addition to the picturesque beauty of the
place. He looked at all these things and he sighed.

"Mr. Hurd," he said, "you are a man of experience. You know very well
that material and spiritual welfare are sometimes things very far
apart."

Mr. Hurd frowned and turned his pony's head towards home.

"I know nothing of the sort, sir," he snapped. "What I do know is that
we don't want any Salvation Army tricks here. You should stay in the
cities. They like that sort of thing there."

"I must come where I am sent, Mr. Hurd," the young man answered. "I
cannot do your people any harm. I only want to deliver my message--and
go."

Mr. Hurd wheeled his pony round.

"I submitted your letter to Miss Thorpe-Hatton," he said. "She agrees
with me that your ministrations are wholly unnecessary here. I wish you
good evening!"

The young man caught for a moment at the pony's rein.

"One moment, sir," he begged. "You do not object to my appealing to
Miss Thorpe-Hatton herself?"

A grim, mirthless smile parted the agent's lips.

"By no means!" he answered, as he cantered off.

Victor Macheson stood for a moment watching the retreating figure. Then
he looked across the park to where, through the great elm avenues, he
could catch a glimpse of the house. A humorous smile suddenly brightened
his face.

"It's got to be done!" he said to himself. "Here goes!"

CHAPTER II

THE HUNTER AND HIS QUARRY

The mistress of Thorpe stooped to pat a black Pomeranian which had
rushed out to meet her. It was when she indulged in some such movement
that one realized more thoroughly the wonderful grace of her slim,
supple figure. She who hated all manner of exercise had the ease of
carriage and flexibility of one whose life had been spent in athletic
pursuits.