"Mr Furneaux has asked me--ordered me, in fact--to meet you by the side of the lake tomorrow morning at a quarter past nine and bring the drawings. Now you know why I have ventured to call this afternoon. I simply could not wait till I was brought before you like a collared thief with the loot in his possession. I _had_ to meet you without the intervention of a grinning policeman. When you heard my plea I thought, I hoped, that you might incline to a less severe view than would be possible if the matter came to your notice without warning." He stopped abruptly. A curiously introspective look had come into the girl's eyes, for he had summoned up courage to glance at her again, and snatch one last impression of her winsome loveliness before she bade him be gone. "Where are you staying in Roxton, Mr. Trenholme?" she asked. The unexpected nature of the question almost took his breath away. "At the White Horse Inn," he said. She pointed across the park. "That farm there, Mr. Jackson's, lies nearly opposite the inn. I suppose the detective has not impounded your sketch?" "No," he murmured, quite at a loss to follow her intent. "Well, Mr. Jackson will let you go and come through his farmyard to oblige me. It will be a short cut for you, too. If you have no objection, I'll walk with you to the boundary wall, which you can climb easily. "Then you might bring this debatable picture, and let me see it--the others as well, if you wish. Wouldn't that be a good idea? I mightn't get quite such a shock in the morning, when the detective man parades you before me. It is not very late. I have plenty of time to stroll that far before dinner." Hardly believing his ears, Trenholme walked off by her side. No wonder Police Constable Farrow was surprised. And still less room was there for wonder that Hilton Fenley, driving with Winter from the station, should shout an imperative order to Brodie to stop the car when he saw the couple in the distance. "Isn't that Miss Sylvia?" he said harshly, well knowing there could be only one answer. "Yes, sir," said the chauffeur. "Who is the man with her?" "Mr. Trenholme, the artist, from the White Horse, sir." "Are you sure?" "Yes, sir. I've seen him several times hereabouts." Fenley was in a rare temper already, for Winter had told him Brother Robert was at home, a development on which he had by no means counted. Now his sallow face darkened with anger. "Drive on!" he said. "I gave orders, at your request, Mr Winter, that no strangers were to be admitted. I must see to it that I am obeyed in future. It is surprising, too, that the police are so remiss in such an important matter." For once, Winter was perforce silent. In his heart of hearts he blamed Detective Inspector Furneaux. CHAPTER X FURNEAUX STATES SOME FACTS AND CERTAIN FANCIES