market-town. The road to the south was the way to the station. And the
road to the north led back to Windygates House.

While Geoffrey was still fifty yards from the turning which would take
him back to Windygates--while the tears were still standing thickly in
Arnold's eyes--the gate of the farm inclosure opened. A light four-wheel
chaise came out with a man driving, and a woman sitting by his side. The
woman was Anne Silvester, and the man was the owner of the farm.

Instead of taking the way which led to the station, the chaise pursued
the westward road to the market-town. Proceeding in this direction, the
backs of the persons in the vehicle were necessarily turned on Geoffrey,
advancing behind them from the eastward. He just carelessly noticed
the shabby little chaise, and then turned off north on his way to
Windygates.

By the time Arnold was composed enough to look round him, the chaise
had taken the curve in the road which wound behind the farmhouse. He
returned--faithful to the engagement which he had undertaken--to his
post before the inclosure. The chaise was then a speck in the distance.
In a minute more it was a speck out of sight.

So (to use Sir Patrick's phrase) had the woman broken through
difficulties which would have stopped a man. So, in her sore need, had
Anne Silvester won the sympathy which had given her a place, by the
farmer's side, in the vehicle that took him on his own business to the
market-town. And so, by a hair's-breadth, did she escape the treble risk
of discovery which threatened her--from Geoffrey, on his way back; from
Arnold, at his post; and from the valet, on the watch for her appearance
at the station.