Mrs. Tretheroe followed the girl inside the pantry, half closed the door, and threw back her veil and her heavy cloak. In spite of her wonder, Valencia could not avoid staring at her in admiration. Mrs. Tretheroe was in her finest feathers, a wonderful dinner-gown, the like of which Valencia had never seen; diamonds were in her chestnut-hued hair and at her white throat; her violet eyes were alive with excitement; her scarlet lips were slightly parted; Valencia realized that this was a much more beautiful woman than she had previously thought her to be. And for the first time she began to realize, too, that she was a dangerous one. The violet eyes looked sharply round the room before settling on the girl’s face. There was a question in them—her lips repeated it. “Your brother—Guy? Is he here?” “No!” answered Valencia. “He’s not!” Mrs. Tretheroe’s fine eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown. “But—my coachman, Burton, tells me that he saw him, this evening, coming here?” she said half-petulantly. “He must be here!” “He isn’t,” retorted Valencia. “He’s been here—and he’s gone.” “Gone? Where?” “I don’t know,” said Valencia. “What do you want?” Mrs. Tretheroe laughed, and as she laughed she drew her cloak and veil about her. “I wanted to see him again, to be sure,” she answered defiantly. “Why not? However, I suppose he’ll come to see me tomorrow.” “No!” declared Valencia. “He’s gone. Back to London.” “There’s no train to London at this time of night, child,” said Mrs. Tretheroe. She laughed a little maliciously. Then the note in her voice turned to one of sudden knowingness. “Ah!” she exclaimed. “I see!—no doubt he’s gone to call on me, now! I’ve missed him. Bye-bye, Valencia; sorry I have disturbed you.” She was out of the room and flying up the corridor and across the hall before Valencia could reply; a moment later the front door closed on her. Braxfield came back. “Is there anything I can do upstairs, miss?” he asked. “The nurse, now?—is there anything she’ll be requiring for the night?” “I don’t know of anything, Braxfield, thank you,” said Valencia. She was leaving the room then, but suddenly she paused, hesitated, and turned back to the old butler. “Braxfield,” she continued, with a look of confidence, “you’ve been in our family a long time, haven’t you?” “Most of my life, miss,” replied Braxfield. “Footman, ten; butler, thirty years.” “And you know a lot of our affairs,” said Valencia. “And no doubt more than I’ve any idea of. So—I wish you’d tell me something. Was there ever any love affair between my brother Guy and Mrs. Tretheroe—when she was Miss Leighton? I want to know, Braxfield.” Braxfield, in his turn, hesitated. He laughed, a little nervously—the laugh, too, of a man disposed to be indulgent towards memories of old days.