She laughed musically. "Well, we'll see. But let's go into the drawing-room to talk: it's more cosy there, and I can make myself comfortable in my favourite chair. This hall's always full of shadows, and we look like a pair of ghosts. Then there are the roses in the drawing-room that I put there myself this morning." She spoke as though she were the hostess, and with complete self-possession. It was she who led the way and Mostyn who followed, still bewildered, and at war with himself. So there was no doubt about it now; it was Rada who had filled those vases with flowers, and who had evidently occupied the room which he had selected for his own. But why on earth had Willis not given some explanation? They entered the drawing-room, and Rada installed herself in one of the comfortable chintz-covered arm chairs. She was seated with her back to the unshuttered window, through which the moon, fully risen by now, could be seen riding in a cloudless and star-sprinkled sky. At that moment a rumble of carriage wheels made itself heard along the drive. "What's that?" queried Rada, looking round sharply. "It's the Willis's driving back to their cottage," said Mostyn shortly. "Their son met with an accident, and they had to bring him home. Since you seem to be a regular visitor here, Miss Armitage, I cannot understand why Willis said nothing to me about you." As he spoke the dog-cart with its three occupants passed the window and disappeared, the noise of wheels gradually dying away in the distance. "I am never here for more than one night at a time," explained Rada, "and I suppose, since I slept here last night, that Mr. Willis did not expect me to turn up again. I was about the garden all the morning, and wondered what had become of him. I put the roses in the vases, but I suppose he thought they were yesterday's." "I see." Mostyn slowly nodded his head. He had seated himself facing the girl, and he could not withdraw his eyes from her face. How bewitchingly elf-like she looked, as she sat there with the light of the moon shining upon her--for the room was but dimly lit by the shaded lamps at the far end. Yes, elf-like was the word, or perhaps Rada was even more correct in describing herself as an imp. She had taken off her flower-bedecked hat, and her black, glistening curls framed a face that seemed to glow with life and mischief. "It's all very simple," she went on. "You see, Mr. Clithero, we live, my father and I, not very far from here. It's only a couple of miles across the fields, though a bit longer by road. Barton Mill is the name of the place; it was once the old mill-house, but the mill's been disused for years. We are not well off, and my father got the house for next to nothing."