On entering the house I found my uncle looking over a packet of letters that his valet had just brought from Rivoli. Daphne was cutting open the envelopes with a paper knife. No one would have thought from her quiet demeanour that she had just been the recipient of a passionate love appeal. "How well women can conceal these things," I thought, dropping despondently into a chair. "Oh, papa, here is an envelope with a seal as big as a florin. Who is it from?" Daphne's curiosity gave her no time to observe the niceties of grammar. "Do read it." My uncle settled his glasses on his nose and examined the letter. "It is from an old schoolfellow, Hugh Wyville," he said. "He has just succeeded to the baronetcy and is now Sir Hugh Wyville, and master of a splendid property in Cornwall. Silverdale Abbey is the name of his place. He wants us to spend Christmas with him. It's a little early for the invitation, but I suppose he wants to forestall all other invitations. He says--it is shocking writing; he ought to get a Secretary--he says he will take a great interest in my slaughter. What the deuce does he mean? Slaughter? Oh, I see--daughter. That's you, Daphne." "Much obliged to him, I'm sure, papa." "He is now in Paris buying pictures. Says his gallery alone is worth a visit to Cornwall, and he is adding to it still. Well, what shall we say to the invitation, Daphne? Shall we accept it?" "What do you say, Frank?" she said. "I say, yes," I answered. "Christmas at an old abbey ought to be delightful." "Then that is settled," my uncle said. "I'll write to him to-day." And being a man of his word, he wrote. "There are to be all sorts of sports at Rivoli this afternoon," he announced at luncheon--"archery, musical contests, dances, and I don't know what else. Would you like to see them, Daphne, or are you too tired?" She pleaded that she was, but would not hear of our remaining at home on her account, and as my uncle seemed to expect my company, I set off with him to the town, conscious that I was a little unchivalrous to Daphne in doing so. On our way through the valley I paused to admire a cottage of firwood perched on a crag overhanging the road. "That is the house in which Angelo said his old nurse lives," said my uncle, looking at it with interest. "Let us give a call." "What for?" I asked, surprised. "Well, I am curious to know what his explanation of that affair in the cathedral is, and he might refer to it; indeed, I don't see how he can avoid doing so." We ascended some steps roughly cut out of the solid rock, and entering a porch over which a vine clambered, we tapped gently at the door. It was opened by the old woman who had offered her good services to Daphne in the cathedral. The moment she saw us her face assumed a hard expression, and contrary to the hospitable spirit usual in the district did not invite us inside but kept us standing at the door. "What do you want?" she demanded curtly.