“Girl,” exclaimed the painter, “my brandy’s out!” Mistress Pym faced the so grave situation entirely undismayed: “I told you ’twas so, days agone, sir,” she answered serenely. “We’ve naught left in the house save my ginger wine.” “Then that must serve,” quoth her sire. “Bring it, a heaven’s name!” Lightly she went and lightly she was back and, steady of hand, filled the three glasses. Sir John eyed the liquor a little askance but tasted it bravely, and glanced at his young hostess. “Your own making, Mistress Pym?” he inquired. “Yes, sir,” she nodded. “’Twould be better were it older, but father never lets it keep long enough.” “And small wonder!” answered Sir John, bowing. “Mistress Pym, I drink to your eyes, for sure there be few to match ’em in the South Country.” So saying, he drank and wished his glass had been larger. Thereupon Mistress Pym curtsied to them and jingled away about her multifarious duties. “Yon’s a braw wife for some lucky man, I’m thinkin’!” quoth Sir Hector. “There’s looks till her, an’, O man, but she’s a bonny cook whateffer! ’Tis a graund thing when a lass can appeal tae a man’s heid, an’ heart, an’ stomach, y’ ken.” “Mr. Pym,” said Sir John as, the ginger wine having made a duly deliberate end, they rose to depart, “you mentioned, I mind, the first time we met, the murder of a man on Windover.” “I did, sir; the cruel assassination of Roger Hobden—a black business that was never cleared up and never will be.” “Had you any suspicions at the time?” “Suspicions, sir? Remembering Lord Sayle and the unholy doings in that solitary house of his, I suspected every one beneath its roof, from Lord Sayle down.” “Losh, man!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “ye’ve a graund gift o’ suspeecioning.” “And suppose I have, sir?” demanded the painter argumentatively. “There is little of good in ’Friston Manor, and evil begetteth evil. And Sayle is a law unto himself, with bullies at hand to work his wicked purposes.” “Whisht, man!” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Ye’ll no be suggestin’——” “And why not, sir? Doth the man’s rank place him above suspicion?” “Never heed father, Sir Hector,” said Mistress Pym at this moment, leaning in at the open door; “he doth but seek an argument——” “Mistress,” quoth the painter, “mind your business!” Whereat Mistress Pym laughed and jingled away again. “Pym—man,” said Sir Hector, “his lordship is no’ juist an archangel nor yet a seraphim, but ye’ll no’ be suspectin’ a man o’ his quality wad stoop tae murder a country lad o’ no condition.” “On the contrary, Sir Hector, I say he would stoop to anything.” “There was never any incriminating evidence found, I believe, sir?” inquired Sir John. “No clue of any kind discovered?”