“Not always,” she answered quietly, raising her eyes for a moment. “There was a time, Everard, before that terrible tragedy--the last time you stayed at Dunratter--when I didn't gibe.” “When, on the contrary, you were sweetness itself,” he reflected. She sighed reminiscently. “That was a wonderful month,” she murmured. “I think it was then for the first time that I saw traces of something in you which I suppose accounts for your being what you are to-day.” “You think that I have changed, then?” She looked him in the eyes. “I sometimes find it difficult to believe,” she admitted, “that you are the same man.” He turned away to reach for his whisky and soda. “As a matter of curiosity,” he asked, “why?” “To begin with, then,” she commented, “you have become almost a precisian in your speech. You used to be rather slangy at times.” “What else?” “You used always to clip your final g's.” “Shocking habit,” he murmured. “I cured myself of that by reading aloud in the bush. Go on, please?” “You carry yourself so much more stiffly. Sometimes you have the air of being surprised that you are not in uniform.” “Trifles, all these things,” he declared. “Now for something serious?” “The serious things are pretty good,” she admitted. “You used to drink whiskys and sodas at all hours of the day, and quite as much wine as was good for you at dinner time. Now, although you are a wonderful host, you scarcely take anything yourself.” “You should see me at the port,” he told her, “when you ladies are well out of the way! Some more of the good, please?” “All your best qualities seem to have come to the surface,” she went on, “and I think that the way you have come back and faced it all is simply wonderful. Tell me, if that man's body should be discovered after all these years, would you be charged with manslaughter?” He shook his head. “I do not think so, Caroline.” “Everard.” “Well?” “Did you kill Roger Unthank?” A portion of the burning log fell on to the hearth. Then there was silence. They heard the click of the billiard balls in the adjoining room. Dominey leaned forward and with a pair of small tongs replaced the burning wood upon the fire. Suddenly he felt his hands clasped by his companion's. “Everard dear,” she said, “I am so sorry. You came to me a little tired to-night, didn't you? I think that you needed sympathy, and here I am asking you once more that horrible question. Forget it, please. Talk to me like your old dear self. Tell me about Rosamund's return. Is she really recovered, do you think?” “I saw her only for a few minutes,” Dominey replied, “but she seemed to me absolutely better. I must say that the weekly reports I have received from the nursing home quite prepared me for a great improvement. She is very frail, and her eyes still have that restless look, but she talks quite coherently.” “What about that horrible woman?” “I have pensioned Mrs. Unthank. To my surprise I hear that she is still living in the village.”