“Perhaps it’s a kind of instinct, as one may say,” said she. “Or perhaps it’s something I’ve noticed and wondered at. She’s by way of being a bit of a flirt, isn’t she now, Mr. Buckland? She’s been nice to you, and nice to Denver, of course. And it seems to me she’s looked at that young man Jones in a way that suggested that she’d been nice to him too, though, mind you, she told us she’d never met him before he came to our house. Now do you happen to know whether that was true or not?” The old lady had been sharp-eyed, and Gerard felt uneasy under her keen glance. He thought evasion of the point his best course. “Who is Jones?” he asked innocently. “Have I met him? Do I know him?” “He was at the Priory that day you came,” said Mrs. Van Santen. “A quiet-looking young man with a black mustache.” Now Gerard had some reason for believing that the young Van Santens knew Cecil Jones as well as Rachel did, but he could not make this suggestion to their innocent old mother. So he said-- “I remember; but I can tell you nothing about him, as it was the first time I’d met him myself, and I haven’t seen him since.” The old lady was watching him keenly. Evidently she was conscious that something was not quite above-board in her surroundings; but Gerard, while sympathizing with her strongly, felt that he could not betray his own fears, lest he should bring suspicion upon Miss Davison. He thought that the motherly body had perhaps been slowly waking to the knowledge that her sons’ card-playing was excessive, and that she might also have heard nasty things said about Denver’s unfailing luck. She seemed rather disappointed that she could not learn more from him. “Now as to this Miss Davison,” she went on, in a grumbling tone, “of course she’s very good-looking and all that, and dresses in style, and carries herself like a queen; but I should like to meet her mother, and the girl doesn’t seem to want to let us meet. Do you know all about the old lady? And her family?” “I know the mother is the widow of an officer who had rather a distinguished career, and that the family is a good one, several members of it holding high posts in the army and navy, especially the army.” The old lady nodded dubiously. “I should like to see some of these grand relations,” she said at last, rather sharply. “We’re good enough for ladies with titles to call upon; I should have thought we were good enough for these Davisons!” “Oh, there’s no suspicion of that sort of thing about them,” said Gerard hastily. “Mrs. Davison is the mildest and gentlest of elderly ladies, and she would be very shy, I think, if she were to find herself in such a merry crowd as that you had at the Priory the Sunday I was there.” “Why don’t she live with her daughter?” asked Mrs. Van Santen aggressively. “Miss Davison has to live in London, on account of her work. It doesn’t agree with her mother.”