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“I have sent a message down to Mr. Saxilby asking him to come up to the office at half-past eight. You will have a lot to discuss.”

“Yes,” Judith said shortly. It was infuriating that, because she had stayed awake so late the previous night, she had slept in this morning. Otherwise she would have breakfasted and been out of the house long before Miss Ravensdale put in an appearance. As it was, Judith felt that she had laid herself wide open to more interference, and the knowledge that she had no one but herself to blame did not make her feel any better tempered.

Hardly eating any breakfast, she went straight to the room which had always been used as the estate office and found Charles already there. As she came in he laid down the book that he had been reading and stood up.

“Good morning, Miss Ravensdale,” he said quietly.

Judith’s lips parted to reply, but her eyes fell on the book he had been studying. It was hand-written— her own writing.

“You had no right to read that!” she said indignantly. “It is my diary ”

“Yes, I realised that,” he admitted. “But not a personal one, is it? Otherwise I should not have read it, of course. Actually, I cannot think of anything that could so quickly put me
au fait
with the running of the farm as a day-to-day diary of events like this.”

His tone expressed genuine approval, but Judith was convinced that he had read her reason for annoyance. It was perfectly true that it gave him invaluable information about the running of the farm—and that was the very reason why she had not intended that he should see it.

He left the book open on the table, his hand resting lightly on it, and the slightly possessive attitude irritated Judith beyond measure.

“Have you any particular plans of how you would like me to take over?” he asked pleasantly.

Judith’s eyes dropped. He was so infuriatingly sure of himself, so certain that he would make no mistakes.

“No,” she said slowly, “I have no plans. You see—I think it is better to be frank, Mr. Saxilby.”

“Much better,” he agreed gravely.

“Yes. Well, the situation is this. I shall not be of age for six months. Consequently it appears that I am not in a position to give orders on my own property.”

He was startled at the bitterness in her voice. And realised, perhaps for the first time, just how intense was the opposition which he had to overcome. He waited in silence for her to go on.

“But in six months the situation is going to be quite different. It is only fair to warn you, Mr. Saxilby, that one of the first things I do will be -to get rid of you!”

Charles, of course, had got up when Judith came in. Now he came a little closer to her, and she had a sudden sense of being overwhelmed. He towered so over her—it was one of her griefs that she was so small and unimposing—and though he was not heavily built, his lithe, easy movements suggested considerable strength. Involuntarily she took a step backwards. Charles seemed to be unaware of it. He said slowly:

“You will dismiss me—even though I make quite' a success of the job?”

Once again Judith’s eyes dropped. It was infuriating that this man should have the ability of making her feel at a disadvantage, but—he should learn!

“I do not think it is likely that you will,” she said bluntly. “After all, I have already had some experience of how you deal with other people, and frankly, I think your manner is tactless and in doubtful taste. I cannot have you making trouble here.”

The impertinence of it! If she had been a boy, at that moment she would have found herself laid across his knees, face down, while his good right hand taught her a much needed lesson. As it was, he found himself saying quietly:

“I agree that our encounter yesterday was unfortunate. None the less, I acted in good faith. I should like you to believe that.”

He paused, but Judith did not reply, and Charles went on:

“I think it is probable that both of us formed opinions then which were not very accurate. I hope that is the case, anyhow.”

She flashed him a sudden, questioning glance, and he saw the bright colour surge up her slim neck to stain her cheeks. He
might
have been apologising, but she knew quite well that he was doing nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he was saying quite unmistakably that she had behaved badly and he hoped that it was not an example of her usual behaviour. He was daring to criticise her.

Here was the moment where justifiably angry words should have put him in his place, but to her consternation she found herself suddenly dumb. And, to her horror, her eyes filled with tears.

She turned blindly away, making for the door, but as she reached it she heard that hateful, self-satisfied voice say:

“You have not yet told me what you would like me to do—”

“Oh—” her hand made a blind, sweeping gesture. “Do what you
like
—it doesn’t matter.”

She stumbled out into the sunshine, and a moment later he heard the sound of her car. She was running away.

Charles’s lean face was grim. Not a good start. She quite obviously genuinely disliked and mistrusted him and, more than that, had no intention of playing fair. And his contribution to the situation, already sufficiently explosive, had served to irritate her still further. That he had done it deliberately and achieved his purpose gave him no satisfaction at all.

He stood for a moment in thought. Then he shut up Judith’s diary and went from the office down to the farm buildings, there to make the acquaintance of the men who would work under him without the proper introduction that Judith should have made. From their silence and their curious eyes, he knew that a quite unnecessary hurdle had been put in his way, but this was not a thing that worried him. Here he was dealing with men, and men, he knew, would judge him on results. He was content to leave it at that.

Judith’s first foolish instinct to escape from a situation that had got completely out of hand dwindled before she had gone more than a mile or so. She drove more and more slowly, so that an ancient rattle-trap of a car coming up behind her had no difficulty in passing her. Once he had done that, the driver drew into the side of the road and stopped.

“Hi, Judith, anything wrong with the car?”

He thought that she seemed to awaken from a dream at the sound of his voice, and it flashed through his mind to wonder what—or who—had been the subject of it.

“Oh, Des, you made me jump!” she said breathlessly.

Desmond Enstone jumped out of his car and came to her side.

“So I saw. Is there anything wrong, Judith?”

Her slim hands gripped the wheel and her dark eyes rested moodily on the road ahead.

“Everything in the world, I think!” she said with something like a sob.

Desmond’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He and Judith had been friends since their childhood days, but this was the first time that he had ever seen a trace of weakness in her. It was interesting. He wanted to find out if, by chance, it was illuminating as well. He was extremely interested in Judith.

“Here, whatever it is, we can’t block up the road like this!” he pointed out as a passing car hooted indignantly at them. “I’m going to take you to Linda. You can have some of her coffee and tell us all about it. How’s that?”

Judith hesitated for a moment.

“All right,” she said at length, and when he went back to his car, she followed his lead to a pleasant old house which had once been a small row of cottages and now, turned into one building, advertised the fact that teas were served.

There had been a time when the Enstones, if not possessed of such wide acres as the Ravensdales, had yet been very comfortably placed. But a succession of death duties plus an attempt on the part of the father of Desmond and Linda to restore the family wealth by spectacular and entirely unjustifiable gambling on the Stock Exchange had ended all that. When the inevitable happened, Mr. Enstone, most conveniently for himself, was suddenly taken very ill with influenza and died within a few days, leaving his wife and children penniless. Mrs. Enstone followed her husband within a few weeks, for, if he had been a failure in other ways, he had certainly always been perfect in her eyes.

All that was left was the house that Desmond and Linda now used both to live in and to make their living from. Linda was the backbone of the concern, but because Desmond had no illusions that his sister would keep him if he did not work, he turned to as well, and the results were surprisingly good.

And now, as Desmond drew up before their quaint home with its heavy black timbers and whitewashed walls, Judith relaxed.

Of all the people that she knew, these were the only ones with whom she felt quite at ease. Theirs seemed to be a different standard of life from hers. More easy-going, less critical of others—Judith did not quite understand just what it. was, but she knew that she had two good friends in the Enstones. And surely, she thought bitterly, no one ever needed friends more than she did at this moment!

LINDA was in the middle of making a batch of scones when Desmond brought Judith round to the kitchen door. He called out cheerfully:

“Judith has come for a cup of your famous coffee! I wouldn’t mind one myself, either!”

“Then you can see to it yourself!” Linda suggested amiably, and turned to greet Judith, her hands still in the mixing bowl.

There was little likeness of appearance between the brother and sister. Even their colouring was different. Desmond’s hair was simply straw colour while Linda’s was a rich, tawny brown. As a matter of fact, an impartial observer might have said that the colour of their hair was as typical of their different characters as anything could be.

For there was no doubt about it, Desmond lacked drive and initiative. Left to his own devices he would always take the easier course, the tempting short cut.

Linda was different. There was something tiger-like in her ruthless determination to make life surrender to her. She could bide her time, even as a tiger can lurk patiently for its victim, but she knew what her goal was, and, sooner or later, there was little chance but that she would reach it. In the meantime she was quite willing to work hard for her living, and she was, in fact, doing that. For a girl who had been brought up in considerable luxury with the comfort of a good domestic staff it was something of an achievement that she not only cooked superlatively well but contrived to keep the house spotless into the bargain, although admittedly with Desmond’s help.

Her brown eyes that could smoulder so provocatively at times were shrewd now as they rested on the younger girl—Linda was twenty-six.

It was easy to see that something was wrong with Judith, and after she had popped her batch of scones into the oven Linda sat down on the chintz-covered window seat beside her visitor.

“What’s wrong, Judith?” she asked sympathetically. Judith shook her head.

“It isn’t fair to bother you with my affairs,” she said. “After all, you must have enough worries of your own!”

“Not so many as you’d think,” Linda said rather cryptically. “Come on, let’s hear about it! After all, what is the good of friends if they aren’t interested in your troubles?”

Encouraged by that, Judith told her story simply and, in the main, quite truthfully. If she told it from her own point of view, that was natural, and in any case the Enstones knew Judith well enough to assess what they heard pretty accurately.

But if they had any criticism of her, they kept it to themselves.

Linda said commiseratingly:

“Poor old Judith, you have had a time of it! I must say, it seems rather absurd that your wishes can be over-ridden when it is only such a short time to your birthday! But I’m afraid if Mr. Bellairs says so he is right! He always errs on the cautious side, you know!”

“I know,” Judith agreed. Her fingers twisted restlessly in her lap. “In any case, it isn’t that so much. It’s knowing that Father was worried. That he didn’t think I was capable—I’ve tried so hard. But now I don’t feel safe. I suppose I’ve lost my confidence.”

Linda hesitated. Privately she thought that Judith was rather a fool. Why on earth should she ever have exerted herself as she had in order to please a father who never put himself out in the least for her sake? Much better, according to Linda’s theories, to accept the facts as they were, sit back and let the men get on with the hard work. After all, what difference would it have made? Judith would have found herself mistress of Windygates just the same, and as pleasantly placed an heiress as she was would surely have no difficulty in finding a husband who would run things for her.

But it appeared that Judith had other ideas.

“Of course, I shall have to get married,” she said flatly. “Only—I don’t think I am the sort of girl that men like very much!”

For the first time for some while, Desmond spoke.

“That’s just plain nonsense!” he insisted stoutly. “If you didn’t behave like a prickly little hedgehog and frighten a chap out of his senses, you’d have so many suitors that Windygates would be cluttered up with them and you’d have to sweep them up with a brush and pan!” It was, of course, an absurd exaggeration, but it amused Judith, as Desmond’s watchful eyes told him. He went on: “I remember, for instance, what happened the only time I tried to kiss you!” and he rubbed his jaw feelingly.

Judith laughed.

“It served you right!” she told him unrepentantly. “It was at the gymkhana and I was competing in the next event! Fancy choosing a time like that to start kissing!” There was all the scorn in the world in her voice. “Besides, I was only sixteen,” she added.

“Meaning that you look at such things differently now?” Desmond asked, moving a little closer.

Judith laughed and shook her head, but Desmond saw the colour creep into her cheeks and was not displeased.

“I must go,” Judith said rather hastily. “Thank you for listening and for bucking me up! I expect it will be all right in the end, but—I can’t bear the thought of leaving Windygates! I’d do anything to avoid that!”