Every time that the poor fellow gave one of
those starts of his, or turned crimson at the sudden sound of a footstep,
Mrs. Oke would ask him, with her contemptuous indifference, whether he had
seen Lovelock. I soon began to perceive that my host was getting perfectly
ill. He would sit at meals never saying a word, with his eyes fixed
scrutinisingly on his wife, as if vainly trying to solve some dreadful
mystery; while his wife, ethereal, exquisite, went on talking in her
listless way about the masque, about Lovelock, always about Lovelock.
During our walks and rides, which we continued pretty regularly, he would
start whenever in the roads or lanes surrounding Okehurst, or in its
grounds, we perceived a figure in the distance. I have seen him tremble at
what, on nearer approach, I could scarcely restrain my laughter on
discovering to be some well-known farmer or neighbour or servant. Once, as
we were returning home at dusk, he suddenly caught my arm and pointed
across the oak-dotted pastures in the direction of the garden, then started
off almost at a run, with his dog behind him, as if in pursuit of some
intruder.
"Who was it?" I asked.
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