Hurd unfolded the letter. The ghost of a smile flickered upon his lips.
“A preacher, apparently,” he answered. “The letter is one asking permission to give a series of what he terms religious lectures in Harrison’s large barn!”
Her eyebrows were gently raised. Her tone was one of genuine surprise.
“What, in Thorpe?” she demanded.
“In Thorpe!” Mr. Hurd acquiesced.
She took the letter and read it. Her perplexity was in no manner diminished.
“The man seems in earnest,” she remarked. “He must either be a stranger to this part of the country, or an extremely impertinent person. I presume, Mr. Hurd, that nothing has been going on in the place with which I am unacquainted?”
“Certainly not, madam,” he answered.
“There has been no drunkenness?” she remarked. “The young people have, I presume, been conducting their love-making discreetly?”
The lines of Mr. Hurd’s mouth were a trifle severe. One could imagine that he found her modern directness of speech indelicate.
“There have been no scandals of any sort connected with the village, madam,” he assured her. “To the best of my belief, all of our people are industrious, sober and pious. They attend church regularly. As you know, we have not a public-house or a dissenting place of worship in the village.”
“The man must be a fool,” she said deliberately. “You did not, of course, give him permission to hold these services?”
“Certainly not,” the agent answered. “I refused it absolutely.”
The lady rose, and Mr. Hurd understood that he was dismissed.
“You will tell your son about Thursday?” she reminded him.
“I will deliver your message, madam,” he answered.
She nodded her farewell as the footman opened the door.
“Everything seems to be most satisfactory, Mr. Hurd,” she said. “I shall probably be here for several weeks, so come up again if there is anything you want me to sign.”
“I am much obliged, madam,” the agent answered.
He left the place by a side entrance, and rode slowly down the private road, fringed by a magnificent row of elm trees, to the village. The latch of the iron gate at the end of the avenue was stiff, and he failed to open it with his hunting crop at the first attempt. Just as he was preparing to try again, a tall, boyish-looking young man, dressed in sombre black, came swiftly across the road and opened the gate. Mr. Hurd thanked him curtly, and the young man raised his hat.
“You are Mr. Hurd, I believe?” he remarked. “I was going to call upon you this afternoon.”
The little man upon the pony frowned. He had no doubt as to his questioner.
“My name is Hurd, sir,” he answered stiffly. “What can I do for you?”
“You can let me have that barn for my services,” the other answered smiling. “I wrote you about it, you know. My name is Macheson.”
Mr. Hurd’s answer was briefly spoken, and did not invite argument.
“I have mentioned the matter to Miss Thorpe-Hatton, sir. She agrees with me that your proposed ministrations are altogether unneeded in this neighbourhood.”
“You won’t let me use the barn, then?” the young man remarked pleasantly, but with some air of disappointment.
Mr. Hurd gathered up the reins in his hand.
“Certainly not, sir!”
He would have moved on, but his questioner stood in the way. Mr. Hurd looked at him from underneath his shaggy eyebrows. The young man was remarkably young. His smooth, beardless face was the face of a boy. Only the eyes seemed somehow to speak of graver things. They were very bright indeed, and they did not falter.
“Mr. Hurd,” he begged, “do let me ask you one question! Why do you refuse me? What harm can I possibly do by talking to your villagers?”
Mr. Hurd pointed with his whip up and down the country lane.
“This is the village of Thorpe, sir,” he answered. “There are no poor, there is no public-house, and there, within a few hundred yards of the farthest cottage,” he added, pointing to the end of the street, “is the church. You are not needed here. That is the plain truth.”
The young man looked up and down, at the flower-embosomed cottages, with their thatched roofs and trim appearance, at the neatly cut hedges, the well-kept road, the many signs of prosperity. He looked at the little grey church standing in its ancient walled churchyard, where the road divided, a very delightful addition to the picturesque beauty of the place. He looked at all these things and he sighed.
“Mr. Hurd,” he said, “you are a man of experience. You know very well that material and spiritual welfare are sometimes things very far apart.”
Mr. Hurd frowned and turned his pony’s head towards home.
“I know nothing of the sort, sir,” he snapped. “What I do know is that we don’t want any Salvation Army tricks here. You should stay in the cities. They like that sort of thing there.”
“I must come where I am sent, Mr. Hurd,” the young man answered. “I cannot do your people any harm. I only want to deliver my message—and go.”
Mr. Hurd wheeled his pony round.
“I submitted your letter to Miss Thorpe-Hatton,” he said. “She agrees with me that your ministrations are wholly unnecessary here. I wish you good evening!”
The young man caught for a moment at the pony’s rein.
“One moment, sir,” he begged. “You do not object to my appealing to Miss Thorpe-Hatton herself?”
A grim, mirthless smile parted the agent’s lips.
“By no means!” he answered, as he cantered off.
Victor Macheson stood for a moment watching the retreating figure. Then he looked across the park to where, through the great elm avenues, he could catch a glimpse of the house. A humorous smile suddenly brightened his face.
“It’s got to be done!” he said to himself. “Here goes!”
CHAPTER II
THE HUNTER AND HIS QUARRY
