s mood had changed during the
night. An atmosphere of smug oiliness sat upon Chatfield in the freshness
of the morning, and he greeted the young solicitor in tones which were
suggestive of a chastened spirit.

"Morning, Mr. Vickers," he said. "A sweetly pretty spot it is that we
find ourselves in, sir--nevertheless, one's affairs sometimes makes us
long to quit the side of beauty, however much we would tarry by it! In
plain words, Mr. Vickers, I want to get out o' this. And I've been
looking round, and my opinion is that the best thing we can do is to
start as big a fire as we can find stuff for on yon bluff and keep
a-feeding on it. In the meantime, while you're considering of that, I'll
burn something of my own--I'm weary."

He dropped down on a convenient boulder of limestone, settled his big
frame comfortably, and producing a pipe and a tobacco pouch, proceeded to
smoke. Vickers himself took another boulder and looked inquisitively at
his strange companion. He felt sure that Chatfield was up to something.

"You say 'we' now," he remarked suddenly. "Last night you said you didn't
want to have anything to do with us. We were to keep to ourselves, and--"

"Well, well, Mr. Vickers," broke in Chatfield. "One says things at one
time that one wouldn't say at another, you know. Facts is facts, sir, and
Providence has made us companions in distress. I've naught against
you--nor against the girl--as for t'other young man, he's of a
interfering nature--but I forgive him--he's young. I don't bear no ill
will--things being as they are. I've had time to reflect since last
night--and I don't see no reason why Miss Greyle and me shouldn't come to
terms--through you."

Vickers lighted his own pipe, and took some time over it.

"What are you after, Chatfield?" he asked at length. "Something, of
course. You say you want to come to terms with Miss Greyle. That, of
course, is because you know very well that Miss Greyle is the legal owner
of Scarhaven, and that--"

Chatfield waved his pipe.

"I don't!" he answered, with what seemed genuine eagerness. "I don't know
naught of the sort. I tell you, Mr. Vickers, I do _not_ know that the man
what we've known as the Squire of Scarhaven for a year gone by is _not_
the rightful Squire--I do not! Fact, sir! But"--he lowered his voice, and
his sly eyes became slyer and craftier--"but I won't deny that during
this last week or two I may have had my suspicions aroused, that there
was someth