"Who are Sir Percy and his daughter? And who is Mrs. Baxter?" "Sir Percy is Sir Percival Lannion Kaye-Templeman. His daughter is named Isabel. Lady Kaye-Templeman died before I was born. That's why there's a Mrs. Baxter. She's called Isabel's governess; but it's Isabel who does the governing." "Why are they coming here?" "The devil only knows. I'm sure they don't." Antonio stopped dead. "Master Edward," he said, "if you're wanting to be a wit or a rattle you shall practice on me at breakfast. But not now; not here. Why are these English people coming here with your father?" "What's the use of asking me?" demanded young Crowberry, somewhat injured. "It's a complicated business, and I haven't brains enough to puzzle it out." "Then use such brains as you've got. Have they bought the abbey, or taken it on lease, or what?" "Something of that sort," pouted the young man. "The guv'nor will explain. I tell you I don't understand it." A jangling bell announced that breakfast was ready. Young Crowberry threw up his hat and shouted for joy. José's fat brown chicken did not remind the guest of a Surrey capon. But as his teeth were good and his appetite still better, he devoured two-thirds of it with relish, and had still enough hunger left for the fruit and bread and cheese. During the meal he consumed a whole bottle of wine and, to finish off, he drank a large cup of corn-and-dandelion coffee, as well as two little glasses of Antonio's orange brandy. Then he lit one of his own cigars. Antonio excused himself from smoking. Soothed and warmed by these good things, young Crowberry gradually became a reasonable human being. He began to talk naturally, and the monk was rejoiced to see that he was vastly improved. It turned out that he had gone back home after only eight months in Oporto, and that he had thrown up the wine-trade in favor of civil engineering. He told Antonio about the railway mania in England, and nearly all his talk was of cuttings, viaducts, and tunnels. Only with difficulty was he led back to the abbey. "All I know is this," he said at last. "You wrote to the pater about raising a thousand or two and buying the place yourself, didn't you? Well, the old man'd have done it like a shot, only he was putting his last shilling into the Sheffield and Birmingham Railway. I expect he'll lose it all in the long run. But he wanted to find you the money. So he's made some kind of a bargain with Sir Percy. They've been jabbering and scribbling over it for a year. Sir Percy's supposed to have bought the abbey from the Portuguese Government. Don't ask me how he's managed it. I always thought he was so hard up he couldn't buy a penny bun." The monk's heart beat fast. "But if this Sir Percy has bought it," he asked, trying to conceal his intense anxiety, "what good is it to me?"