Dick noticed that whilst Harry was present the girl’s manner was just a little strained and unreal, and she was nervous, too, started when she was addressed, and was content to listen without including herself in the conversation. It was not until Harry had gone, with a lame apology, back to the library that she became her real self again, and the old Leslie crept forth from its hiding place. Once, whilst he and his brother were discussing the affair of the dungeons, she had walked on to the terrace, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her in profile, a slim, frail-looking girl, with her delicate face and her glorious hair, and in the setting she looked almost ethereal. It was as though some old masterpiece of Botticelli had come to life. When the door had closed on Harry she came back and sat down with a little grimace. “Was it very rude of me to go out? Dicky, I can’t work up any interest in the things that really fascinate Harry! Whatever will he talk about when the treasure is found?” “The treasure? Oh, you mean the gold? He will probably talk about you.” She made a little moue. “I’m too young to be interesting to Harry, three hundred years too young,” she said. “Now tell me about your detective. I liked what I saw of him. He is to be your little guardian angel? And, Dick, will he have a beat--is that the word? Because, if he has, I do hope he’ll take in Willow House. I’ll even lend him my car.” “Are you really frightened?” She thought for a while before she replied. “I think I am,” she said. “When I was a child the first air raids fascinated me, the second were interesting, but after the third or fourth they became--just air raids. And the Black Abbot--well, he’s very picturesque, Dick, but he’s rather terrifying. Didn’t you tell me that Harry feared him?” “He does a little.” “Why, I wonder?” “Harry is naturally of a nervous temperament,” said Dick. “People are born that way, and it is absurd to talk of ‘cowardice’ where they are concerned. Now I was born without the knowledge of nerves, and I daresay if you saw me chasing the Black Abbot you would think I was terribly brave. As a matter of fact, it is simply because I’ve no imagination.” “That isn’t true,” she said. “Why do you always belittle yourself?” “Because I am by nature excessively modest,” he said gravely, and at that moment they caught sight of Mr. Puttler strolling through the long lines of rose trees that ran parallel with the eastern wing. Together they went down the terrace steps and intercepted him. “It is a lovely place,” said Mr. Puttler, shaking his head in admiration. “I’ve never seen so many roses together in my life, except at Covent Garden Market, and they’re not roses, they’re just merchandise.” “I’ve told Miss Gwyn that you’re a detective, Puttler.” Puttler frowned at this.