“I can’t tell you rightly. All I know about it came to me from Lucilla Smith, who is own sister to Mary Roberts, the cook up there, who, it seems, was listening at the door, or, as she puts it, waiting to be called in to say good-bye to her master, and she had it from the gardener’s boy.” “She? Who had it, aunt?” “Why, Lucilla Smith had, of course. Can’t you understand plain English? I tell you that old Sir Reginald sat up in bed and cursed and swore at the Captain till he was black in the face. Then he screeched out loud and died.” “How dreadful!” said Joan. “But what was he cursing about?” “About? Why, because the Captain wouldn’t promise to marry Miss Levinger, who’s got bonds on all the property, down to the plate in the pantry, in her pocket. That old fox of a father of hers stole them when he was agent there, I expect——” Here Mrs. Gillingwater checked herself, and added hastily, “But that’s neither here nor there; at any rate she’s got them, and can sell the Graves’s up to-morrow if she likes, which being so, it ain’t wonderful that old Sir Reginald cursed when he heard his son turn round coolly and say that he wouldn’t marry her at any price.” “Did he tell why he wouldn’t marry her?” asked Joan, with a desperate effort to look unconcerned beneath her aunt’s searching gaze. “I don’t know that he did. If so, Lucilla doesn’t know, so I suppose that Mary Roberts couldn’t hear. She did hear one thing, however: she heard your name, miss, twice, so there wasn’t no mistake about it.” “My name? Oh! my name!” gasped Joan. “Yes, yours, unless there is another Joan Haste in these parts, which I haven’t heard on. And now, perhaps, you will tell me what it was doing there.” “How can I tell you when I don’t know, aunt?” “How can you tell me when you won’t say, miss? That’s what you mean. Look here, Joan: do you take me for a fool? Do you suppose that I haven’t seen through your little game? Why, I have watched it all along, and I’m bound to say that you don’t play half so bad for a young hand. Well, it seems that you pulled it off this time, and I’m not saying but what I am proud of you, though I still hold that you would have done better to have married Samuel; for I believe, when all is said and finished, he will be the richer man of the two. It’s very nice to be a baronet’s lady, no doubt; but if you have nothing to live on—and I don’t fancy that there are many pickings left up there at Rosham—I can’t see that it helps you much forrarder.” “What do you mean, aunt?”