I say he may--be passing by another name--Paul
something else, for example."

"Assuredly--certainly--yes--yes," Hugh Ritson mumbled. His all but
impenetrable calm was gone.

They reached the front of the house, and stood in a paved court-yard. It
was the home of the Ritsons, known as the Ghyll, a long Cumbrian
homestead of gray stone and green slate. A lazy curl of smoke was
winding up from one chimney through the clear air. A gossamer net of the
tangled boughs of a slim brier-rose hung over the face of a broad porch,
and at that moment a butterfly flitted through it. The chattering of
geese came from behind.

"Robert Lowther was the father of Grace Ormerod's child?" said Hugh
Ritson, vacantly.

"The father of her son Paul."

"And Greta is his daughter? Is that how it goes?"

"That is so--and half-sister to Paul."

Hugh Ritson raised his eyes to Mr. Bonnithorne's face.

"And of what age would Paul Lowther be now?"

"Well, older than you, certainly. Perhaps as old as--yes, perhaps as
old--fully as old as your brother."

Hugh Ritson's infirm foot trailed heavily on the stones. His lips
quivered. For a moment he seemed to be rapt. Then he swung about and
muttered:

"Tut! it isn't within belief. Thrusted home, it might betray a man,
Heaven only knows how deeply."

Mr. Bonnithorne looked up inquiringly.

"Pardon me; I fail, as you say, to catch the relevance."

"Mr. Bonnithorne," said Hugh Ritson, holding out his hand, "you and I
have been good friends, have we not?"

"Oh, the best of friends."

"At your leisure, when I have had time to think of this, let us discuss
it further."

Mr. Bonnithorne smiled assent.

"And meantime," he said, softly, "let the unhappy little being we spoke
of be sent away."

Hugh Ritson's eyes fell, and his voice deepened.

"Poor little soul--I'm sorry--very."

"As for Greta and her lover--well--"

Mr. Bonnithorne nodded his head significantly, and left his words
unfinished.

"My father is crossing the stack-yard," said Hugh Ritson. "You shall see
him in good time. Come this way."

The shadows were lengthening in the valley. A purple belt was stretching
across the distant hills, and a dark-blue tint was nestling under the
eaves. A solitary crow flew across the sky, and cawed out its guttural
note. Its shadow fell, as it passed, on two elderly people who were
coming into the court-yard.

CHAPTER IV.

"It's time for that laal Mr. Bonnithorne to be here," sa