‘It was a pretty little town I had to visit, quite an ideal place for quiet picturesqueness. Whitbury was its name. I suppose you do not know anything of it?’ Mr. Belassis’ face seemed to turn all colours at once. ‘Whitbury—Whitbury!’ he stammered, with an immense effort to make his voice sound natural. ‘No, I don’t remember that name. I don’t think I could ever have been there.’ ‘I am sure you would never have forgotten the place if you had seen it,’ continued Tor. ‘It is so particularly pretty. There is a fine old church there, and a river running through the valley, which is quite a resort for fishermen, I believe. I have some thoughts of going there again some day to fish. The Angler’s Arms is an inviting little inn. There is something very attractive to me in a simple little English town.’ ‘Ah, yes—very—very much so,’ answered Belassis vaguely, feeling as though an iron hand was clutching at his throat, yet experiencing an insane desire to find out whether or not this detestable nephew was talking with a purpose. The frank affable manner gave him a dim hope that all was well; but he dared not meet the eyes which perhaps would have told him more. ‘You—you—went on business for your friend, did you? How comes he to have business in Whitbury? I thought he had lived always abroad.’ ‘He has property in Whitbury; a very charming old house inhabited by a very charming maiden lady. The house stands in a square, and faces the Minster, but looks behind on to a lovely stretch of country. Its mistress is a particularly clever and pleasant woman—a Miss Descartes—Miss Marjory Descartes as she seems to be always called.’ Belassis’ face had paled to a dull grey hue. His wife’s eyes were fixed upon it curiously and unquietly. Tor continued talking in the same frank, gossiping way. ‘It was some business about a new lease that took me down; but Miss Marjory and I became great friends. She was good enough to like me, and I was charmed with her. Perhaps some day I may have the pleasure of introducing her here. I have great hopes of inducing her to visit us at Ladywell some time or other.’ The dull grey hue changed to a delicate pea-green. Tor felt a sort of compassion for the miserable man before him. He had learnt all he wished to know. This man was none other than Nelly Roberts’s husband, and he had _not_ made sure of her death before marrying again. Had he done that, he would hardly have been so hopelessly cowed. The discovery of a former marriage, and a low one, would be an awkward affair enough for him to face now; but would hardly account for such a depth of terror as was visible in his face.