But these details, as Bundle realized, were hardly relevant to the situation. She sat frowning down at the blotting paper in front of her. She had a pencil in her hand and was idly tracing the name Bower over and over again. Suddenly an idea struck her and she stopped dead, staring at the word. Then she summoned Tredwell once more. "Tredwell, how is the name Bower spelt?" "B-A-U-E-R, my lady." "That's not an English name." "I believe he is of Swiss extraction, my lady." "Oh! That's all, Tredwell, thank you." Swiss extraction? No. German! That martial carriage, that flat back to the head. And he had come to Chimneys a fortnight before Gerry Wade's death. Bundle rose to her feet. She had done all she could here. Now to get on with things! She went in search of her father. "I'm off again," she said. "I've got to go and see Aunt Marcia." "Got to see Marcia?" Lord Caterham's voice was full of astonishment. "Poor child, how did you get let in for that?" "Just for once," said Bundle, "I happen to be going of my own free will." Lord Caterham looked at her in amazement. That anyone could have a genuine desire to face his redoubtable sister-in-law was quite incomprehensible to him. Marcia, Marchioness of Caterham, the widow of his late brother Henry, was a very prominent personality. Lord Caterham admitted that she had made Henry an admirable wife and that but for her in all probability he would never have held the office of Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. On the other hand, he had always looked upon Henry's early death as a merciful release. It seemed to him that Bundle was foolishly putting her head into the lion's mouth. "Oh! I say," he said. "You know, I shouldn't do that. You don't know what it may lead to." "I know what I hope it's going to lead to," said Bundle. "I'm all right, Father, don't you worry about me." Lord Caterham sighed and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. He went back to his perusal of the _Field_. But in a minute or two Bundle suddenly put her head in again. "Sorry," she said. "But there's one other thing I wanted to ask you. What is Sir Oswald Coote?" "I told you--a steam-roller." "I don't mean your personal impression of him. How did he make his money--trouser buttons or brass beds or what?" "Oh! I see. He's steel. Steel and iron. He's got the biggest steel works, or whatever you call it, in England. He doesn't, of course, run the show personally now. It's a company or companies. He got me in as a director of something or other. Very good business for me--nothing to do except go down to the city once or twice a year to one of those hotel places--Cannon Street or Liverpool Street--and sit round a table where they have very nice new blotting paper. Then Coote or some clever Johnny makes a speech simply bristling with figures, but fortunately you needn't listen to it--and I can tell you, you often get a jolly good lunch out of it."