How beautiful, how tranquil was that spot, how sweet-smelling that wealth of trailing roses which entirely hid one-half the house after the dust and stuffiness of Fleet Street, the incessant rattle of traffic, and the hoarse shouting of "the winners." Beyond the lawn, which we now crossed to greet our hostess and her daughter, the river ran cool and deep, with its surface unruffled, so that the high poplars on the opposite bank were reflected into it with all their detail and colour as in a mirror. It was a warm afternoon, and during our drive the sun had beat down upon us mercilessly, but here in the shadow all was delightfully cool and refreshing. The porch of the house facing the river was one mass of yellow roses, which spread their fragrance everywhere. Mrs. Blain was seated in a wicker chair with some needlework, while Mary was lying in a _chaise-longue_ reading the latest novel from Mudie's, and our footsteps falling noiselessly upon the turf, neither noticed our approach until we stood before them. "I'm so very pleased you've come, Frank," exclaimed the elder lady, starting forward enthusiastically as she put down her work, "and I'm delighted to meet your friend. I have heard of you both several times through your father. I wonder he doesn't exchange his living with some one. He seems so very unwell of late. I've always thought that Harwell doesn't suit him." "He has tried on several occasions, but the offers he has had are in towns in the North of England, so he prefers Berkshire," I answered. "Well," she said, inviting us both to be seated in comfortable wicker chairs standing near, "it is really very pleasant to see you again. Mary has spoken of you, and wondered how you were so many, many times." "I'm sure," I said, "the pleasure is mutual." Dick, after I had introduced him to Mrs. Blain, had seated himself at Mary's side and was chatting to her, while I, leaning back in my chair, looked at this woman before me and remembered the object of my visit. There was certainly nothing in her face to arouse suspicion. She was perhaps fifty, with just a sign of grey hairs, dark-eyed, with a nose of that type one associates with employers of labour. A trifle inclined to _embonpoint_, she was a typical, well-preserved Englishwoman of motherly disposition, even though by birth she was of one of the first Shropshire families, and in the days of Shenley she had been quite a prominent figure in the May flutter of London. I had liked her exceedingly, for she had shown me many kindnesses. Indeed, she had distinctly favoured the match between Mary and myself, although her husband, a bustling, busy man, had scouted the idea. This Mary herself had told me long ago in those dreamy days of sweet confidences. The thought that she was in any way implicated in the mysterious affair under investigation seemed absolutely absurd, and I laughed within myself.