the Squire _that_ way."

"And as likely a road to lead you into his good graces, Sir," said the
keeper, rising, "as any I know. Are you for a walk round the park this
fine evening, Sir?"

"No; not to-night, thank you, Grange. I have got to fill in this sketch
a bit that I took this morning."

"Then, good-night, Sir, for I sha'n't return before daylight."

But it was not till long after the keeper had taken his departure that
Richard Yorke turned hand or eye to his unfinished drawing. He sat
staring straight before him with steadfast eyes and thoughtful face, for
hours, murmuring to himself disjointed sentences; and ever and anon he
started up and paced the little room with rapid strides. "He shall see
me, and know me, too," muttered he, at last, between his clenched teeth,
"though it should cost one of us our lives. She shall not say I came
down to this wilderness, like some hunted beast to covert, for nothing."




CHAPTER III.

THE NIGHT-WATCH.


It was an easy thing enough, as Walter Grange had said, to make
acquaintance with Carew of Crompton, and possible even to become his