"Now, what does that portend?" the keen old diplomatist muttered under his breath. "It was almost as though Nugent had been afraid that Chermside was not coming, and that he was gratified when at length he appeared. I wonder what is the bond, if bond it is, between the young soldier with the mysterious blank in his life and the clever gentleman with so many irons in the fire that he ought to have burned his fingers long ago. There is something in the wind, but is the youngster from India a dupe or confederate? I would give a good deal to know." At the word from jovial Montague Maynard the now completed party set out for the picnic ground, a chorus of approval going up at the announcement of the spot selected. Even on a hot summer day the laziest could not object, for, once outside the Manor demesne, a quarter of an hour's saunter through the delightful scenery at the head of the marsh brought them to the little strip of pasture land reclaimed from the swamps, where the tea-tables had been set out in the shade of a group of elms. Cavillers might have complained that the railway embankment skirting the place on one side marred the aesthetic harmony of the whole, but if there were any such they remained discreetly silent. The snowy damask of the tables laden with dainties and surrounded by a bevy of smart maidservants from the Manor made an inviting picture on the strip of verdure, and Montague Maynard's guests renewed their acclamations. Reggie Beauchamp, who had, of course, annexed Enid Mallory as his partner for the afternoon, expressed the opinion that it was "simply ripping." "And, by Jove!" he added of malice aforethought, "look at that girl bossing the other maids. She seems to be in charge of the show. She is ripping too. Just the style of beauty I admire." Enid cocked a sly eye at him, and catching the gleam of mischief refused to be drawn. "Yes," she said, following his gaze to the graceful brunette in black silk who was directing operations at the tables, conspicuous by the absence of apron and cap-streamers, "that is Louise Aubin, Violet Maynard's maid. She is certainly pretty, but she looks as if she had a temper. I shouldn't dare to find fault with her if she belonged to me." "A bit of a spitfire, perhaps," assented the Lieutenant, finding that his harmless shaft had missed its mark. "Might give you beans with the brush, eh, if you slanged her for pulling out your hair by the roots?" Miss Mallory sniffed contemptuously at the implied familiarity with the sacred rites of the dressing-table, and she might have expressed herself strongly on the subject had not their attention been distracted by the approach of a train along the embankment above them. It was beginning to shut off steam for the stop at Ottermouth Station, a mile further on, and the people in the carriages were plainly distinguishable by the picnic party.