“I see you have the likenesses of two men I know a little of, Miss Buckley, Sir George Clayton-Brookes and his nephew. I should say your memories must often carry you back to the old days in the little village of Brinkstone.” In spite of the self-possession engendered by so many years of facing big audiences, the woman could not help giving a start of surprise which did not escape the keen eyes of Sellars. “What in the world do you know about Brinkstone?” she asked in a hard voice. Her jollity had gone for the moment, she was the sharp, alert woman of the world, ready to keep a close watch on her words, more disposed to ask questions than answer them. Sellars left the mantelpiece and sat himself on the chair opposite her, putting on a very ingenuous expression of countenance. “I know rather a lot,” he said pleasantly. “Shortly before Christmas I took a fancy to run down there, and I put in a few very agreeable days. I was engaged on some literary work, and I found it very quiet and peaceful. There I made the acquaintance of a very delightful old-world sort of fellow who had seldom stirred beyond the confines of his native village—the head waiter, as he is now, one Dobbs. I am sure you can’t have forgotten dear old Dobbs, Miss Buckley?” The lady breathed a little hard. He guessed that she had half a mind to tell a lie, disclaim all knowledge of the little village of Brinkstone and its inhabitants, but she was afraid to because she was not sure how much he knew. “Perhaps I have, perhaps I haven’t. And how does it concern you, Mr. Sellars, whether I know him or not?” But Sellars did not answer her question, he put one himself. “The portrait of that very pretty girl—am I not right in saying it is one of your girl friend—Lettice Larchester?” Again he saw that she was strongly tempted to tell a lie, to give him another name as the original of that charming picture, and that she refrained for the same reason. “You seem to know all my friends, apparently. Can you tell me the other three?” she inquired in a voice of heavy sarcasm. “I am afraid I cannot, they do not interest me in the least,” he said easily. “Well, to resume about good old Dobbs. In the evenings when he was clearing the dinner things, we used to have long chats together, a drop of whisky set his tongue going nineteen to the dozen, and he told me lots of things about Brinkstone people.” “Must have been very interesting, I’m sure,” said the lady, with something like a snort. She helped herself to another glass of port, but did not offer one to Sellars.