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Steer’s mare usually did the seven miles in just under forty minutes, and he was proud of her, especially when she overhauled Bowden’s mare. The two spring carts travelled abreast of each other just long enough for these words to be exchanged:

“Mornin’, Bowden!”

“Mornin’! Mornin’, Miss Molly, ’aven’t seen yu lately; thought yu were visitin’!”

“No, Mr. Bowden.”

“Glad to see yu lukin’ up s’well. Reckon Ned’s tu busy elsewhere just now.”

It was then that Steer’s mare drew well ahead.

‘My old mare’s worth two of his,’ he thought.

Bowden’s cart was distant dust before he turned to his niece and said:

“What’s the matter with Ned Bowden. When did you see him last?”

His shrewd light eyes noted her lips quivering, and the stain on her cheeks.

“It’s—it’s a month now.”

“Is it—is it?” was all Steer said. But he flicked the mare sharply with his whip, thinking: ‘What’s this? Didn’t like that fellow’s face—was he makin’ game of us?’

Steer was an abstemious man; a tot of sloe gin before he embarked for home was the extent of his usual potations at ‘The Drake.’ But that day he took two tots because of the grin on the face of Bowden, who would sit an hour and more after he had gone, absorbing gin and cider. Was that grin meant for him and for his niece?