"As they," she corrected. "As they," said the humble Mr. Crotin. "There's something wrong," she said, and shook her head, and Mr. Crotin found himself going white. "I'll have a talk with you when I've got this wretched bazaar business out of my head," she added, and with a little nod she left him. He walked to the window of the long dining-hall and watched her car disappearing down the drive, and then with a sigh went back to his _entremets_. When Colonel Dan Boundary surmised that this unfortunate victim of his blackmail would be worried, he was not far from the mark. Crotin had spent many sleepless nights since he came back from London, nights full of terror, that left him a wreck to meet the fears of the days which followed. He lived all the time in the shadow of vengeful justice and exaggerated his danger to an incredible degree; perhaps it was in anticipating what his wife would say that he experienced the most poignant misery. He had taken to secret drinking too; little nips at odd intervals, both in his room and in his private office. Life had lost its savour, and now a new agony was added to the knowledge that his wife had detected the change. He went to his office and spent a gloomy afternoon wandering about the mills, and came back an hour before his usual time. He had not the heart to make a call at the bazaar, and speculated unhappily upon the proceeds of the afternoon session. It was therefore with something like pleasure that he heard his wife on the telephone speaking more cheerfully than he had heard her for months. "Is that you, John?" she was almost civil. "I'm bringing somebody home to dinner. Will you tell Phillips?" "That's right, love," said Mr. Crotin eagerly. He would be glad to see some new face, and that it was a new face he could guess by the interest in Lady Sybil's tone. "It is a Mr. de Silva. Have you ever met him?" "No, love, I've not. Is he a foreigner?" "He's a Portuguese gentleman," said his wife's voice; "and he has been most helpful and most generous." "Bring him along," said Crotin heartily. "I'll be glad to meet him. How has the sale been, love?" "Very good indeed," she replied; "splendid, in fact--thanks to Mr. de Silva." John Crotin was dressing when his wife returned, and it was not until half an hour later that he met Pinto Silva for the first time. Pinto was a man who dressed well and looked well. John Crotin thought he was the most impressive personality he had met, when he stalked into the drawing-room and took the proffered hand of the mill-owner. "This is Mr. de Silva," said his wife, who had been waiting for her guest. "As I told you, John, Mr. de Silva has been awfully kind. I don't know what you're going to do with all those perfectly useless things you've bought," she added to the polished Portuguese, and Pinto shrugged. "Give them away," he said; "there must, for example, be a lot of poor women in the country who would be glad of the linen I have bought."