still, and the fact that he was in great trouble was making him dearer to her.
Moreover, every one who spoke to her about him told her that he was looking miserable beyond words. Her heart went out to him.
None the less, she did not go to see him without a struggle. She felt that he ought to come to her. However, her pride had been beaten in that struggle by her fondness and her pity—even more by her pity.
When she knocked at the door of his father's cottage James Hutchings himself opened it, and his harassed, hang-dog air settled in her mind for good and all the question of his guilt. She was not daunted; indeed, a sudden anger against Lord Loudwater for having brought about his own murder flamed up in her. Like every one else who had known him, she could feel no pity for him.
James Hutchings showed no pleasure whatever at the sight of her. Indeed, he scowled at her.
"Come to gloat over me, have you?" he growled bitterly.
"Don't be silly!" she said sharply. "What should I want to do a thing like that for? Is your father in?"
"No; he isn't," said James Hutchings sulkily, but his eyes gazed at her hungrily.
He showed no intention of inviting her to enter. Therefore she pushed past him, walked across the
