Sybil allowed her father to speak, as was right and proper. "I am the vicar of this place, Lord Kilspindie," said Tempest, politely, "and this is my daughter. It was she who put the advertisement in the paper. I presume that it is to that we owe the pleasure of your company." "That and nothing else," said Lord Kilspindie, taking the seat pointed out to him by the vicar. "I have been looking for that cup for over twenty years. It is not in your possession?" "It was for a few weeks," replied the vicar, who was very curious. "I had better tell you the whole story, and then you can judge for yourself." "If you will be so kind," replied Lord Kilspindie, courteously. He listened attentively while Mr Tempest narrated all the events in connection with the cup from the time Pratt had arrived in Colester. The story was a strange one, and the visitor was much interested. However, he did not offer one interruption. Sybil watched him the meanwhile. He was a tall, grey-haired man of over sixty, but still vigorous and straight. His face was lined, however, as though he had undergone much trouble. He had a soldierly look about him, and all the time the vicar was speaking tugged at a long grey moustache, the only hair he wore on his face. Sybil thought of the line in the "Ancient Mariner" about long and lean and brown as the seashore sand (she could not quite recall the quotation), but to her it described Kilspindie perfectly. He was rather sad-looking, and his quiet grey eyes looked as though he had known bitter trouble. And indeed he had. Sybil learned that later. "A very interesting story," he said politely when Mr Tempest had finished, "but disappointing in its ending. You say this man Pratt has now the cup in his possession?" "He confessed as much, my lord, in a letter to the detective in charge of the case. It is a pity he has escaped with it." "A great pity," responded the other. "I suppose there is no chance of his being captured?" "From what Mr Marton said I should think not," put in Sybil. "He says that Pratt has baffled all the cleverest detectives in England for a great number of years." Kilspindie sighed. "No chance of getting it back," he murmured; "and the luck will still be bad." "The luck!" echoed Sybil, catching the word. "You will think me superstitious," he said, with a smile; "but the fact is that the cup is said to be a fairy gift, and has been in our family for generations. The luck of the family goes with the cup." "Like the luck of Edenhall!" said Sybil, remembering Longfellow's poem. "Precisely," responded Kilspindie. "The legend is a curious one. I must tell it to you some time. Of course my opinion is that the cup is of Roman manufacture. I recognised it from its description, and especially from the Latin motto you set down in the advertisement. I think that goblet was dedicated to Bacchus, and was probably lost by some Roman general when Scotland was invaded by the Cæsars."