“And what if you are,” Miss Rachael replied briskly. “In my young days we were in the nursery at nineteen.” “Quite so,” Mr. Pengarth assented with relief. “You took me by storm just now, Miss Juliet. After all, you are only a child.” “I am old enough to feel and to mean all that I said to you, Mr. Pengarth,” she answered gravely. “And that reminds me, too--there was something else I meant to ask you.” “Sister,” Mr. Pengarth said, “have you ordered the wine and the cake?” “Bless me, no!” Miss Rachael declared. “It shall be ready in five minutes.” She entered the house. Mr. Pengarth stooped to pick some lavender. “The only time I ever saw Sir Wingrave Seton,” she said, “was on the day before I was told that a relation of my father had been found, who was willing to take charge of me. There was a younger man with him, someone very, very different from Sir Wingrave. Do you know who he was?” “A sort of secretary of Sir Wingrave, I believe, dear. I never met him. I was, unfortunately, away at the time they came.” “He was very nice and kind to me,” the girl continued, “just as nice as Sir Wingrave was horrid. I suppose it was because they came on that day, but I have always connected him somehow with this mysterious relation of mine. Mr. Aynesworth didn’t help to find him, did he?” “Certainly not!” the lawyer answered. “The instructions I had came first from Mr. Saunders, the vicar of the parish. It was he who appeared to have made the necessary inquiries.” “Horrid old man!” she declared. “He used to make me feel that I wanted to cry every time that I saw him.” “Miss Rachael is calling us,” the lawyer declared with obvious relief. “New cake!” Juliet declared, “I can smell it! Delicious!” LADY RUTH’S LAST CARD “There are two letters,” Aynesworth announced, “which I have not opened. One, I think, is from the Marchioness of Westhampton, the other from some solicitors at Truro. They were both marked private.” Wingrave was at breakfast in his flat; Aynesworth had been in an adjoining room sorting his correspondence. He accepted the two letters, and glanced them through without remark. But whereas he bestowed scarcely a second’s consideration upon the broad sheet of white paper with the small coronet and the faint perfume of violets, the second letter apparently caused him some annoyance. He read it through for a second time with a slight frown upon his forehead. “You must cancel my engagements for two days, Aynesworth,” he said. “I have to go out of town.” Aynesworth nodded. “There’s nothing very special on,” he remarked. “Do you want me to go with you?” “It is not necessary,” Wingrave answered. “I am going,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “to Cornwall.” Aynesworth was immediately silent. The one time when Wingrave had spoken to him as an employer, was in answer to some question of his as to what had eventually become of the treasures of Tredowen. He had always since scrupulously avoided the subject.