“I never knew her, or found her out, until lately. I’ll tell you all about it another time. Here is the Paradis. I’m not going in. Give my _hate_ to Mrs. Hesketh. Oh, well, darling Mum, don’t look so shocked,” patting her lightly on the arm; “you know, I never mean the quarter of what I say, and you also know, that she can’t endure the sight of me!” Then Miss Glyn embraced her mother, and turned quickly about to walk to Mitzau, and post her letter. Mrs. Hesketh, who was awaiting her friend in the lounge, looked unusually solemn as she asked, “What have you done with the girl?” “She has gone to the post. I think, dear Cousin Maude, she has a sort of instinct that you don’t care for her.” “Let us have tea at once,” said her friend, brusquely ignoring the question; “afterwards, we will go up to my room and hold a meeting.” As the tea proceeded, Letty was conscious that there was thunder in the atmosphere; the symptoms were as clear as when a storm was collecting in the neighbouring mountains, and rugged old Pilatus arrayed himself as a preliminary, in a series of scarf-like clouds. Although Mrs. Hesketh talked spasmodically of home news, and exchanged civil greetings with acquaintances, her manner was abstracted. Undoubtedly some subject lay heavily on her mind, and Letty hurried over her tea, declining a second cup, and said: “Do let us go upstairs, I cannot bear suspense--anything is better than _that_.” “So, then, you guess?” said her friend, leading the way to the sitting-room, and drawing forward two chairs on her balcony. “I cannot guess what you may have to say,--only that I’m sure it is something to do with the child.” “It has. Hitherto, excepting that night at the fête--and we might have been mistaken--we have had nothing to support suspicion, beyond Frau Hurter’s natural animosity towards a girl who has bewitched her son.” “Yes,” agreed Letty breathlessly. “And now, I have got hold of facts.” “How? Facts!” “By the means of unintentional eavesdropping in this very verandah.” “Eavesdropping?” “Yes, you know how sounds ascend. I was sitting up here last night alone, enjoying the glorious view, and moonlight--vaguely aware that some men were talking and smoking just below, and one of them who had a loud, resonant voice, was describing someone who was splendid sport. When he said ‘a flapper of seventeen,’ I pricked up my ears at once. “‘Knows her way about,’ he went on, ‘uncommonly handsome--and up to all sorts of games.’ “Letty, I leant nearer, and listened shamelessly, and another voice asked: “‘Where does she hang out?’ “‘At a farm up the hill here, a place called Les Plans.’ “‘Oh,’ said the other, ‘a native?’ “‘No--English--and by way of being a lady. She has lived here with her mother since she was a kid; the mother is a damned pretty woman----’ “I am repeating what I heard verbatim--