It was now March and there crept into the keen air a breath of spring. The sky was intensely blue, the chestnut buds were glummy, and the wayside hedges were greening over with tiny leaves. As the village, with its ancient fish-like smells, was not inviting, the girl often walked along the verge of the cliffs beyond the Rectory, and watched the murmuring waves ebbing and flowing on the sandy beach below. On the day she met Lady Wyke the sunshine was unusually warm and brilliant, and the azure of the sky, the deep blue of the sea, the reddish stretch of cliffs, and the delicate, green budding of the trees made up an uncommonly pretty picture. Claudia walked along for quite a mile and then sat down to rest near a coastguard station. The winds brought colour to her cheeks, sunshine light to her eyes, and the girl looked extremely young and extremely pretty. "A penny for your thoughts, Miss Lemby," said Lady Wyke, in her shrill, sharp, and unpleasant voice. Claudia started violently, as the newcomer had stolen up so quietly behind that she was not aware, of her proximity until she spoke. "Good-day, Lady Wyke," she answered, quietly, "I fear my thoughts are not worth even the small sum you offer." "Oh, I don't know so much about that." Lady Wyke, a brilliant figure in black touched here and there with orange ribbons, leant with both hands on the smart silver-headed cane which she carried. "Young girls dream of satin frocks and orange-wreaths, of handsome bridegrooms and the wedding march." "You are not a good thought-reader," said Claudia, coldly. "Ha! we all make mistakes. Then you were thinking of your father, and of----" "Of things which it is not necessary for you to know," interrupted the girl, with provoking calmness. "My thoughts are my own." "What an obvious remark." Lady Wyke put up her lorgnette and surveyed Claudia, inquisitively. "Very obvious for so clever a girl." "How do you know that I am clever?" "Well, I think a girl with a shady father, who does her best to ingratiate herself with prejudiced people because she wants to marry their son is clever." "What right have you to say that my father is shady?" asked Claudia, still composed, and mistress of herself. Lady Wyke laughed. "Oh, your father and I have had quite a correspondence," she said, airily. "He was a great friend of my late husband's, you know, and professes anxiety to help me discover who killed poor Hector. He writes suggesting theories, and I write back to say that he is talking rubbish. But I rather think," added the woman, shrewdly, "that there is more in your father's attentions to me than zeal for revenge on the man who murdered Hector." "Indeed!" Claudia coloured as she knew very well what her father's intentions were. "But all this does not warrant your calling him shady." "Well, no. All the same, I may have other reasons. Miss Lemby. I think you are a nice honest girl----" "Pardon me, but isn't this conversation rather personal?"