“I’ve just time to catch the 7.15 if I’m quick.”

“But I never heard of such a thing,” Garvey said.  “Of course I took it for granted that you would stay the night.”

“It’s kind of you,” said Shorthouse, “but really I must return to-night.  I never expected to stay.”

The two men stood facing each other.  Garvey pulled out his watch.

“I’m exceedingly sorry,” he said; “but, upon my word, I took it for granted you would stay.  I ought to have said so long ago.  I’m such a lonely fellow and so little accustomed to visitors that I fear I forgot my manners altogether.  But in any case, Mr. Shorthouse, you cannot catch the 7.15, for it’s already after six o’clock, and that’s the last train to-night.”  Garvey spoke very quickly, almost eagerly, but his voice sounded genuine.

“There’s time if I walk quickly,” said the young man with decision, moving towards the door.  He glanced at his watch as he went.  Hitherto he had gone by the clock on the mantelpiece.  To his dismay he saw that it was, as his host had said, long after six.  The clock was half an hour slow, and he realised at once that it was no longer possible to catch the train.

Had the hands of the clock been moved back intentionally?  Had he been purposely detained?  Unpleasant thoughts flashed into his brain and made him hesitate before taking the next step.  His employer’s warning rang in his ears.  The alternative was six miles along a lonely road in the dark, or a night under Garvey’s roof.  The former seemed a direct invitation to catastrophe, if catastrophe there was planned to be.  The latter—­well, the choice was certainly small.  One thing, however, he realised, was plain—­he must show neither fear nor hesitancy.

“My watch must have gained,” he observed quietly, turning the hands back without looking up.  “It seems I have certainly missed that train and shall be obliged to throw myself upon your hospitality.  But, believe me, I had no intention of putting you out to any such extent.”

“I’m delighted,” the other said.  “Defer to the judgment of an older man and make yourself comfortable for the night.  There’s a bitter storm outside, and you don’t put me out at all.  On the contrary it’s a great pleasure.  I have so little contact with the outside world that it’s really a god-send to have you.”

The man’s face changed as he spoke.  His manner was cordial and sincere.  Shorthouse began to feel ashamed of his doubts and to read between the lines of his employer’s warning.  He took off his coat and the two men moved to the armchairs beside the fire.

“You see,” Garvey went on in a lowered voice, “I understand your hesitancy perfectly.  I didn’t know Sidebotham all those years without knowing a good deal about him—­perhaps more than you do.  I’ve no doubt, now, he filled your mind with all sorts of nonsense about me—­probably told you that I was the greatest villain unhung, eh? and all that sort of thing?  Poor fellow!  He was a fine sort before his mind became unhinged.  One of his fancies used to be that everybody else was insane, or just about to become insane.  Is he still as bad as that?”