The General shot a rather shamefaced glance at the firm mouth and steadfast eyes of this plucky young enthusiast, and thereupon he decided to enlist her as an adviser in the more intricate questions that vexed him. There was the chance that woman’s wit would fathom woman’s guile, and tell him why Mrs. Talmage Eglinton should want to point the index of suspicion at Ziegler, who was probably her _confrère_ in crime. Woman’s wit might even tell him why his Grace the Duke of Beaumanoir, engaged in such a simple ducal pastime as making sheep’s-eyes at a pretty American girl, should yet recoil abashed whenever Leonie turned her frankly responsive but puzzled gaze on him. Above all, the course proposed would enable this brave English girl to do what he was beginning to fear he could not do for her—to take care of herself. "Yes," he said, putting down his cup with a grim smile, "I’ll take you on, soon as you’ve finished your tea. And," he added, fumbling for his cigar-case, "I’ll try and not frighten you." Sybil rose at once, and together they strolled along the terrace to a distance from the chatter round the tea-table, which had drowned their incipient confidences. When they were quite out of earshot Sybil turned and confronted the General, and the lighter tone with which she had "played" him was lacking now. "Tell me," she said gravely, "why Mrs. Talmage Eglinton is so anxious to kill my poor cousin and spoil that charming idyll." "Mrs. Talmage Eglinton!" stammered the General. "How on earth did you know that?" "How did I know!" his new coadjutor repeated with scorn. "In the same way that she must know herself that _you_ know, you dear silly old man. Because of the absolutely absurd invitation to her to come and stay here at Prior’s Tarrant without rhyme or reason." And then, when General Sadgrove had recovered from the shock of finding that he was not quite inscrutable, they talked, very seriously, for upwards of half an hour. CHAPTER XV—_A New Cure for Headache_ "I wonder if General Sadgrove and Mr. Forsyth are lunatics?" Sybil Hanbury purred softly, after joining in the chorus of thanks which greeted a superb rendering of Strelezki’s "Arlequin" on the long disused grand piano in the tapestry-room. This apartment was more cozy and homelike than the vast white drawing-room at Beaumanoir House, but it was quite large enough for isolated conversations. The uncomplimentary confidence was made into the shell-like ear of Mrs. Talmage Eglinton, who, faultlessly gowned by Worth, was sitting apart with her nominal hostess in the embrasure of an oriel window. The Duke was hovering near the piano, and Forsyth was talking to Mrs. Sadgrove and Mrs. Sherman. The General was not present, having excused himself from coming straight from the dining-room on the plea of having a letter to write.