When they reached the beautiful drawing-room, with its windows open to the terrace, and a riot of gorgeous sulphur chrysanthemums showing above the stone balustrade, they found they were alone. Mr. Puttler had melted away as they were passing through the hall. He explained, afterward, that he wanted to stroll through the gardens, but the girl knew that the man’s uncanny instinct had told him that, of all the people in the world, these two were satisfied best with each other’s company. “Did you sleep?” she asked. He nodded. “I didn’t get up till lunch time,” he said. “And you?” She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t sleep. Poor Arthur!” “Did you try beefsteak?” he asked brutally. “Really, the most incongruous company I can imagine is a black eye and Arthur Gwyn!” “He is awfully shaken,” she said seriously. “I have never known him to be so upset. It _was_ Mr. Gilder.” “I knew,” said Dick, “or, at least, I guessed. Did you find out the cause of the quarrel?” She hesitated. “I don’t know; I think it was something to do with me.” “What was Gilder doing at your house?” “Arthur didn’t tell me,” she replied. “From what he said I gather that Mr. Gilder had been watching Arthur and had followed him somewhere.” “To the Abbey ruins--yes, that is quite possible. And of course your brother objected to that, naturally. Why are they watching each other?” “Is Arthur watching Gilder?” she asked in surprise. “It almost looks like it. Leslie, I want to tell you something that nobody else knows, not even Harry. It may bring a little ease to your mind in the dark hours of the night. Puttler is a detective, a Scotland Yard man.” She stared at him. “A detective? Why on earth----?” “Things have been happening that I don’t very much like,” said Dick. “I’ve been worried nearly sick about them, and though I’m quite capable of dealing with most contingencies, the Lord has ordained that I should take seven hours’ rest in every twenty-four, and there must be somebody awake when I’m asleep.” “The Black Abbot--is that what is worrying you?” He bit his lip thoughtfully. “Yes and no. Some aspects of the Black Abbot’s activities trouble me more than I should like to confess. Leslie, do you believe in the treasure?” “The Chelford treasure?” she asked, in surprise. “And what do you mean by believing in it? It is true that the gold was brought to Fossaway Manor in olden times, isn’t it?” “Perfectly true,” said Dick, “and perfectly true, I should imagine, that it was taken away. But do you believe that it has any existence, that it can be found? Suppose one dug up every square inch of the park, pulled down this old house of ours, probed into the bowels of the earth, do you think it is possible that the gold could be found? Because, if you don’t, there are other people who do besides Harry.” “Do you believe?” she challenged. He heaved a deep sigh.