She recovered her composure quickly and turned to me with a rather sharp but not unpleasant little laugh. “As it turned out, I’m glad. It must have been a very uncomfortable occasion.” She laughed again—obviously at me. “Come, Mr. Rillington, be sensible. There are servants at Cragsfoot. And there are servants at Briarmount. Do you suppose that I haven’t heard all the gossip through my maid? Of course I have! And can’t I put two and two together?” I had never—we had never—thought of this obvious thing. We had thought that we could play the ostrich with its head in the sand! Our faithful retainers were too keen-sighted for that! “Besides,” she pursued, “when smart society weddings have to be put off, because the bride doesn’t turn up at the last moment, some explanation is put in the papers—if there is an explanation. And she gets better or worse! She doesn’t just vanish, does she, Mr. Rillington?” I made no reply; I had not one ready. “Oh, it’s no business of mine. Only—I’m sorry for Waldo, and dear Miss Fleming.” A gesture of her neatly gloved and shapely hands seemed to dismiss the topic with a sigh. “Have you seen anything of Don Arsenio lately?” she asked the next moment. “Is he in England?” “Yes. He was at the wedding—well, at the church, I mean.” She came to a stop, turning her face full round to me; her lips were parted in surprise, her white teeth just showing; her eyes seemed full of questions. If she had “scored off” me, at least I had startled her that time. “Was he?” she murmured. At the point to which our walk had now brought us, the cliffs take a great bulge outwards, forming a bold rounded bluff. Here, seeming to dominate, to domineer over, a submissive Bristol Channel, Mr. Jonathan Frost (as he then was—that is, I think, the formula) had built his country seat; and “Briarmount” he had called it. “Good Heavens,” said I, “what’s happened to the place? It’s grown! It’s grown as much as you have!” “We’ve built on a bit—a few more bedrooms, and bathrooms. And garages, you know. Oh, and a ballroom!” “No more than that?” “Not at present. Come in and have a look—and some tea. Or are you in too deep mourning?” I found myself not exactly liking the girl, but interested in her, in her composure—and her impudence. I accepted her invitation.