The jurymen climbed into their surreys and Fords and took their departure. Warriner lingered behind, and a few minutes later he joined me on the porch, where I was smoking a long longed-for cigarette. Miss Trevor had gone upstairs, and John Thaneford had betaken himself to the sick-room; we were entirely alone. "I found this in the passage behind the secret door," he said, and handed me the withered remains of what had been a magnificent yellow rose. "Interesting exhibit, isn't it," he went on dryly. "You don't--you don't mean?" I stammered. "I'm not very much up on floriculture, but this particular variety happens to be one of my favorites. The florists call it----" "Yes?" "_Madame Colette Marinette._" Chapter VII _The Whispering Gallery_ The long afternoon went by, but we had accomplished nothing more than the consumption of an unlimited amount of tobacco. "Certainly not convincing evidence," said Warriner with a final shrug of his shoulders. "Still my yellow rose is worth preserving along with the moth cocoon," and he put the pathetic dead flower carefully away in his empty cigarette case. For a minute or two the silence remained unbroken. "I wonder if you would mind spending a few days here at the 'Hundred?'" I blurted out; suddenly I was aware that I had taken a strong liking to Chalmers Warriner. "I've no end of things on hand," he answered, smiling cordially, "but I'll see what I can do. Suppose I run into Calverton, look over my mail, and return here around ten o'clock." "It would be a great kindness," I said heartily. We shook hands, and he jumped into his perfectly appointed cross-country car and drove away. Yes, I did like Chalmers Warriner very much, and he seemed to have a head on him. Doctor Marcy also left us. His patient had continued to improve, and of course he had his other practice to look after. It was a pleasanter dinner than that of the night before inasmuch as John Thaneford was at "Thane Court," while Miss Trevor pleaded a headache and had tea and toast served in her room. But there was my Cousin Betty Graeme to do the honors of my board--how strange it still seemed to use the possessive pronoun!--with all possible grace and dignity. Also I had the pleasure of welcoming a new addition to the household, a Mrs. Anthony, an old family friend and Betty's godmother to boot. Circumstances had prevented her attendance at the funeral, but she had reached the "Hundred" at last, to Betty's infinite comfort and satisfaction. Mrs. Anthony was a delightful old person, with the figure of a young girl and the flashing eyes and snowy bob curls of a French marquise. I did myself the honor of kissing the small hand extended to me, and was taken into favor at once.