“Ah, my dear young lady,” he said lightly, without giving her an opportunity even to express her astonishment. “I would like you to go to your sister, who is in my house over the way. But I fear you cannot open any of the doors. Won’t you retire and rest a little, after your complicated labours?” He smiled a little grimly. “Everything is all right here, and should your aged relative need your ministrations you may rely on me to call you. In the meantime, your cousin and I, and your particular friend Mr. Jetsam, must have a chat on business matters.” He bowed, covering the aperture of the door with his body so that Rosie could not see inside the room. As for Rosie, she hesitated. “I entreat you,” he insisted, “go and rest, and don’t have anything more to do with boats; you might drown yourself. And believe me when I say that nothing further will be done in secret. The moment I am free I will endeavour to free the doors.” Rosie moved reluctantly away down the landing. She had not spoken a word. Carpentaria closed the portal softly and retired to his chair. “You have my attention,” he remarked significantly to Mr. Jetsam. “Well,” said Jetsam, after a moment’s pause. “It goes back a very long time, this affair does, Mr. Carpentaria. It certainly began before you were born--down at Torquay. Torquay, according to what they tell me, was not the place then that it is now, not by a considerable distance; but it was fashionable. It had got a bit of a name as a good place to go and get fat in. Perhaps that was why a certain soda-water manufacturer went there to spend a year or so. He was a very wealthy man, and he rented a villa there. It’s one of those villas on the top of the hill between Union Street and the sea, and it still exists. His age was about fifty, and he was supposed to be worth half a million or so--all made out of gas and splutter, you see. Being supposed to be worth half a million or so, of course he soon had the entire population of Torquay knocking at his door and throwing cards into his card-basket. He made a wide circle of friends in rather less than no time, and being a simple, decent creature, though not faultless, he was pretty well pleased with himself. Now among the friends that he made was a certain widow, age uncertain--but in the neighbourhood of thirty, and her name was Kilmarnock.” At this time Mr. Jetsam stood up, and bending over Mrs. Ham’s bed with his smile so ruthlessly cruel, he repeated, staring at the invalid: “Her name was Kilmarnock, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Ilam made no sign. Mr. Jetsam resumed his chair.