"Well, we've finished that, so far as you are concerned," she said, "but as soon as you have rescued the family and the wedding bells have ceased ringing, you'll find yourself faced with another problem. Did you notice a queer little cottage, right opposite the Abbey?" "Of course I did." "Well, there's an old man sits in the garden there," she went on, "reading the Bible and cursing the Marquis, most of the day. He used to do it years ago, and then he went to America. Now he's come back, and he's started it again." "And what does the Marquis do about it?" David enquired. "He can't do anything. The late Marquis made the old man a present of the cottage for saving his life, and they can't take it away from him now. I suppose he must have been really wicked when he was young--I mean the Marquis," she went on, "because, you see, he ran away with that old man's daughter. It's the sort of thing," she went on, "that Marquises are supposed to do in stories, but it doesn't make them popular in a small neighbourhood. Now tell me about the good-looking woman who bowed to you, please?" "She is the daughter of the man of whom you have been speaking," David told her. "She is the lady with whom the wicked Marquis eloped nearly twenty years ago." Sylvia's interest was almost breathless. "You mean to say that you knew the story--you--an American?" "Absolutely," he replied. "I came into touch with it in a queer way. The old man Vont came back from America on the same steamer that I did. I'll tell you another thing. The wicked Marquis, as you call him, and that lady whom we have just passed, dine together now at least one night a week, and the woman has become quite a famous authoress. She writes under the name, I believe, of Marcia Hannaway." Sylvia threw herself back in her seat. "Why, it's amazing!" she declared. "It turns a sordid little village tragedy into a piece of wonderful romance. Perhaps, after all, that is what makes the Marquis seem like a piece of wood to every other woman." "I have heard it said," David continued, "that he has been entirely faithful to her all his life. Where do I stop, please?" "Here," she replied, "at this shop. Please come in and choose your own meat. I feel in much too romantic a frame of mind to even know beef from mutton." David followed her a little doubtfully into the shop. "Perhaps," he ventured to suggest, "as the nucleus of your meal has already been decided upon--" "Of course," she interrupted; "cutlets. We want more cutlets. You needn't bother. I'll see about it." David slipped into the next shop and reappeared with a huge box of chocolates, which he handed over apologetically. "I am not sure whether you'll find these up to much."