Hardly had Kester St. George disappeared before Lionel Dering was by the fountain, on the very spot where his cousin had stood half a minute before. He had noted well the place. There, before him, was the very crevice into which Kester had thrust his arm. Into that same crevice was Lionel’s arm now thrust—elbow deep—shoulder deep. His groping fingers soon laid hold of that which was hidden there. He drew out his arm quickly, and the something that he had found glittered steel-blue in the moonlight. With a cry of horror he dropped it, and it fell with a dull clash among the stones. Lionel Dering had recognized it in a moment as a dagger which he had last seen in the possession of Percy Osmond. CHAPTER III. MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND. Mrs. McDermott had reached Pincote, and she did not fail to let every one know it. As the Squire had predicted, the moment she had taken off her waterproof, and changed her boots, she marched straight into the library, and asked for her money. It was with a feeling of profound satisfaction that her brother unlocked his bureau, and handed her a roll of notes representing five thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds. She counted the notes over twice, slowly and carefully. “What are the seven hundred and fifty pounds for?” she asked. “Interest for three years at five per cent. per annum.” “I thought you would have got me seven per cent. at the least,” she said ungraciously. “My man of business tells me that seven is quite a common thing nowadays. He says that he can get me nine or ten per cent. on real property, without any difficulty.” “I should advise you to be careful what you are about,” said the Squire, gravely. “Big profits, big risks; little profits, little risks.” “I know perfectly well what I’m doing,” said Mrs. McDermott, with a toss of her antiquated curls. “It’s you slow, sleepy, country folks, who crawl behind the times, and miss half the golden chances that come to people who keep their eyes wide open.” The Squire shook his head, but said no more. He groaned in spirit when he thought what his “golden chance” had done for him. “Let her buy her experience as I’ve bought mine,” he said to himself. “From a girl she was always pig-headed: let her pay for it.” “Have you any idea how long your aunt is likely to stay?” he asked Jane, a day or two later. “No idea whatever, papa. If the quantity of her luggage is anything to go by, I should say that her stay is likely to be a long one.” “I hope not, with all my heart,” sighed the Squire.