Whilst he was puzzling unsuccessfully over that problem, the stranger startled him by asking:

"Can you tell me if there's a house called Furrowbank near here?"

Rowley answered slowly:

"Why, yes. Up there on the hill. You must have passed close by it - that is, if you've come along the footpath from the station."

"Yes - that's what I did." He turned, staring up the hill. "So that was it - that big white new-looking house."

"Yes, that's the one."

"A big place to run," said the man.

"Must cost a lot to keep up?"

A devil of a lot, thought Rowley. And our money... A stirring of anger made him forget for the moment where he was...

With a start he came back to himself to see the stranger staring up the hill with a curious speculative look in his eyes.

"Who lives there?" he said. "Is it - a Mrs Cloade?"

"That's right," said Rowley. "Mrs Gordon Cloade."

The stranger raised his eyebrows. He seemed gently amused.

"Oh," he said, "Mrs Gordon Cloade. Very nice for her!"

Then he gave a short nod.

"Thanks, pal," he said, and shifting the pack he carried he strode on towards Warmsley Vale.

Rowley turned slowly back into the farmyard. His mind was still puzzling over something.

Where the devil had he seen that fellow before?

About nine-thirty that night, Rowley pushed aside a heap of forms that had been littering the kitchen table and got up. He looked absentmindedly at the photograph of Lynn that stood on the mantelpiece, then frowning, he went out of the house.

Ten minutes later he pushed open the door of the Stag Saloon Bar. Beatrice Lippincott, behind the bar counter, smiled welcome at him. Mr Rowley Cloade, she thought, was a fine figure of a man.

Over a pint of bitter Rowley exchanged the usual observations with the company present, unfavourable comment was made upon the

Government, the weather, and sundry particular crops.

Presently, moving up a little, Rowley was able to address Beatrice in a quiet voice:

"Got a stranger staying here? Big man? Slouch hat?"

"That's right, Mr Rowley. Came along about six o'clock. That the one you mean?"

Rowley nodded.

"He passed my place. Asked his way."

"That's right. Seems a stranger."

"I wondered," said Rowley, "who he was."

He looked at Beatrice and smiled. Beatrice smiled back.

"That's easy, Mr Rowley, if you'd like to know."

She dipped under the bar and out to return with a fat leather volume wherein were registered the arrivals.

She opened it at the page showing the most recent entries. The last of these ran as follows:

Enoch Arden. Cape Town. British.

Chapter 9

It was a fine morning. The birds were singing, and Rosaleen, coming down to breakfast in her expensive peasant dress felt happy.

The doubts and fears that had lately oppressed her seemed to have faded away. David was in a good temper, laughing and teasing her. His visit to London on the previous day had been satisfactory. Breakfast was well cooked and well served. They had just finished it when the post arrived.