“I'll be quite glad to have a talk with Peter. He'll be so delighted to know that Derek's back at last. It was only the other day that we were talking about Derek together. Peter thinks there's no one like him.” “All the more reason for saying nothing, then. If it turns out that it isn't Derek, it would disappoint Peter badly if you'd raised his hopes.” Then, seeing that his scepticism had again roused his sister's temper, he added hastily: “By the way, how's Peter keeping? Has he had any more of these turns of his—apoplexy, wasn't it?” “He seemed to be quite well when I saw him the other day. Of course, he's got to be careful and not excite himself; but he seemed to me as if he'd quite got over the slight attack he'd had in the spring.” “Still got his old squirrel?” “It's still there. And the rest of the menagerie too. He insisted on showing me them all, and of course I had to pretend to be frightfully interested. Poor old man, they're all he has now, since his wife died. It would be very lonely for him up there, with no one within a mile of him. His birds and things are great company for him, he says.” Paul Fordingbridge seemed relieved that the conversation was edging away from the dangerous subject. He led it still further out of the zone. “Have you see Cressida and Stanley this morning? They'd finished breakfast and gone out before I came on the scene.” “I think they were going to play golf. They ought to be back presently.” She went to the window and gazed out for a moment or two without speaking. Her brother took up _The Times_ and resumed his study of the share market, with evident relief. “This hotel spoils Lynden Sands,” Miss Fordingbridge broke out after a short silence. “It comes right into the view from the front of Foxhills—great staring building! And, wherever you go along the bay, you see this monstrosity glaring in the middle of the view. It'll ruin the place. And it'll give the villagers all sorts of notions, too. Visitors always spoil a small village.” Her brother made no reply, and when she halted in her complaints he rustled his newspaper clumsily in an obvious effort to discourage further conversation. Just then a knock at the door was heard. “Come in!” Miss Fordingbridge ordered. A page-boy appeared. “Message on the telephone for you, sir.” Paul Fordingbridge rose reluctantly and left the room. He was absent for a very short time; and when he came back his sister could see that he was disturbed. “That was a message from the doctor. It seems poor old Peter's gone.” “Gone? Do you mean anything's happened to him?” “He's had another attack—some time in the night or earlier. They didn't find out about it until the morning. The doctor's just been up at the cottage, so there's no doubt about it.” “Poor Peter! He looked so well when I saw him the other day. One would have thought he'd live to see eighty. This will be a dreadful disappointment for Derek. He was so fond of the old man.”