They were in the little work-room together, and Murdoch, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, looked before him without replying, except by a slight knitting of his brows.
Haworth laughed harshly.
"Confound him for a fool!" he said. "I'm sick of the chap, with his talk. He'll stir me up some o' these days."
Then he looked up at his companion.
"He has you up there every night or so," he said. "What does he want of you?"
"Never the same thing twice," said Murdoch.
"Do you—always see her?"
"Yes."
The man moved in his seat, a sullen red rising to his forehead.
"What—has she to say?" he asked.
Murdoch turned about to confront him. He spoke in a low voice, and slowly.
"Do you want to know," he said, "whether she treats me as she would treat another man? Is that it?"
"Aye," was the grim answer, "summat o' that sort, lad."
Murdoch left his chair. He uttered half a dozen words hoarsely.
"Come up to the house some night and judge for yourself," he said.
He went out of the room without looking back. It was Saturday noon, and he had the half-day of leisure before him, but he did not turn homeward. He made his way to the high road and struck out upon it. He had no definite end in view, at first, except the working off of his passionate excitement, but when, after twenty minutes'
