"As I thought," he said, "as I expected. How cunning it all is, how beautifully worked out! And nothing, however small, is left to chance. Well, I came home in the nick of time, and I have found an ally I can depend upon. Only it was just as well not to let Geoffrey know that I knew of Jessop's lodger before to-day. I wonder if my lady guesses how carefully she is being watched." Half an hour later Ralph was in the castle again, wandering about in his restless way and appearing to be interested in nothing, as usual. Presently the great bell began to clang in the turret, and the family partly gathered in the dining room before dinner. Vera was the last to arrive. "How lovely you look," Geoffrey whispered. Vera laughed and colored. She had a white dress without ornament and without flowers, save a deep red rose in her hair. "That red rose is the crowning touch," said Geoffrey. "I thought it was to be all white to-night," Ralph said. He had caught the whispered words, as he seemed to catch everything. "Was that not so, Vera?" "Not for me, sir," Vera replied. "I am in white." "I wish you could see her," Geoffrey said tenderly, "she looks lovely. Her eyes are so blue, her skin is like the sunny side of a peach." "And your tongue is like that of a goose," Vera laughed. "Never mind, Uncle Ralph. Never mind. If you can't have the inestimable advantage of gazing on my perfect beauty, you shall have the privilege of sitting by me at dinner." Geoffrey pleaded with comic despair, but Vera was obdurate. As the bell clanged again, she laid a hand light as thistledown on Ralph's arm. She was brighter and more gay than usual this evening and Marion played up to her, as she always did. The elders were silent. Perhaps the white flowers on the table checked them. They were so suggestive of the wreaths on a coffin. When once the cloth was drawn in the good old-fashioned way, and the decanters and lamps and glasses stood mirrored in the shining dark mahogany, the resemblance was more marked than ever. The long strip of white damask, whereon lamps and flowers and decanters rested, might have been a winding sheet. Rupert Ravenspur protested moodily. "It's dreadful in a house like this," he said. "Who did it?" "I am the culprit, dearest," Vera admitted prettily. "Marion did all in her power to prevent me, but I would have my own foolish way. If you will forgive me I will promise that it shall not occur again." Rupert Ravenspur smiled. It was only when he was looking at Vera that the tender relaxation came over his stern old face. Then his eyes fixed on the flowers and they seemed to draw him forward. "You are forgiven," he said. "Marion was right, as she always is. What should we do without your cheerfulness and good advice? Upon my word I feel as if those flowers were drawing all the reason out of me."