“Not more so than I am to him,” declared the girl quite frankly.

“Then why did you write breaking off your engagement?”

“He told you that?” she exclaimed in surprise.

The truth was that Murie had told Flockart nothing.  He had not even seen him.  It was only a wild guess on Flockart’s part.

“Tell me,” she urged anxiously, “what did he say concerning myself?”

Flockart hesitated.  His mind was instantly active in the concoction of a story.

“Oh, well—­he expressed the most profound regret for all that had occurred at Glencardine, and is, of course, utterly puzzled.  It appears that just before Christmas he went home to Connachan and visited your father several times.  From him, I suppose, he heard how you had been discovered.”

“You told him nothing?”

“I told him nothing,” declared Flockart—­which was a fact.

“Did he express a wish to see me?” she inquired.

“Of course he did.  Is he not over head and ears in love with you?  He believes you have treated him cruelly.”

“I—­I know I have, Mr. Flockart,” she admitted.  “But I acted as any girl of honour would have done.  I was compelled to take upon myself a great disgrace, and on doing so I released him from his promise to me.”

“Most honourable!” the man declared with a pretence of admiration, yet underlying it all was a craftiness that surely was unsurpassed.  That visit of his to Northamptonshire was made with some ulterior motive, yet what it was the girl was unable to discover.  She would surely have been cleverer than most people had she been able to discern the hidden, sinister motives of James Flockart.  The truth was that he had not seen Murie, and the story of his anxiety he had only concocted on the spur of the moment.

“Walter asked me to give you a message,” he went on.  “He asked me to urge you to return to Glencardine, and to withdraw that letter you wrote him before your departure.”

“To return to Glencardine!” she repeated, staring into his face.  “Walter wishes me to do that!  Why?”

“Because he loves you.  Because he will intercede with your father on your behalf.”

“My father will hear nothing in my favour until—­” and she paused.

“Until what?”

“Until I tell him the whole truth.”

“That you will never do,” remarked Flockart quickly.

“Ah! there you’re mistaken,” she responded.  “In all probability I shall.”

“Then, before you do so, pray weigh carefully the dire results,” he urged in a changed tone.

“Oh, I’ve already done that long ago,” she said.  “I know that I am in your hands, utterly and irretrievably, Mr. Flockart, and the only way I can regain my freedom is by boldly telling the truth.”

“You must never do that!  By Heaven, you shall not!” he cried, looking fiercely into her clear eyes.

“I know!  I’m quite well aware of your attitude towards me.  The claws cannot be entirely concealed in the cat’s paw, you know;” and she laughed bitterly into his face.