But before returning to the Manor he had yet another errand to fulfil--a note for Mrs. Ramsay at Ivy House. Here he rang repeatedly, he even gave heavy single knocks with the bulbous brass knocker, but received no reply beyond the distant barking of indignant dogs. At last he went round and discovered a large paved yard, but no human being. Then he ventured to approach one of the sitting-room windows and peered in--a comfortable dining-room with a cheerful fire, but empty. No, just underneath the window on a sofa lay an elderly man fast asleep. He wore grey woollen socks on his slipperless feet, an empty tumbler stood on a chair beside him--and this at eleven o’clock in the morning. (True, O. Wynyard, but it had contained no stronger drink than hot water.) He had the intention of rapping at the pane, but changed his mind and retired to the door, and as he waited he heard a voice above him calling out in a rich brogue-- “Bad scran to ye, Fanny, if there isn’t a young gentleman below wid a big band-box, and he is afther pullin’ out the bell by the roots; ’tis a shame to lave him standin’ in all the pours of rain! An’ such a lovely big man!” At this moment the hall door was opened by a tall dark woman in a mackintosh and motor cap, with two frantic fox-terriers on the lead, and a self-possessed French bulldog in dignified attendance. “I’m afraid you’ve been waiting,” she said, in a soft brogue. “I was away at the kennels, the servants were upstairs, and the Captain is asleep.” Then, opening the note (as well as the fox-terriers would permit), she glanced over it, and the messenger glanced at her--a woman of thirty-five, with a thin, well-bred face, black hair, and very long lashes. When she lifted them, he saw that her eyes were of a blue-black shade, both sad and searching--the whole expression of her face seemed to be concentrated in their pupils. “Please tell Miss Parrett I’ll come to tea. I’ve no time to write. I have to take the dogs out.” The fox-terriers were straining hard at their leash. “They must have exercise; and when these come back, there are three more.” As she spoke, Wynyard could hear the injured yelping of their disappointed companions. “Now, don’t open the little dogs’ room,” she called to an elderly woman in the background, who gave the amazing answer-- “And what would ail me?” “And mind that the Captain has his broth at twelve.” Then she stepped out into the beating rain, and Wynyard was surprised to find that Mrs. Ramsay was about to accompany him. “I’m going your way,” she explained; “it’s the safest. These two are new dogs, and I’m rather afraid to go near the Rectory; their Aberdeen is such a quarrelsome beast--always trailing his coat.” “Mackenzie?” “Ah, and so you know him?” she said, with a smile; “you weren’t long in making his acquaintance.” Wynyard exhibited his left hand, and a severe bite. “I suppose he was trying to kill Joss; that’s his profession--a killer of other dogs.”