His amazed, uncomprehending look gave her the clue to what had happened. It was another instance of the astounding and mysterious way it worked. She must have got at Bella somehow in getting at him. She saw now no end to the possibilities of the thing. There wasn’t anything so wonderful in making him what, after all, he was; but if she, Bella, had been, even for a week, a perfect angel, it had made her what she was not and never had been. His next utterance came to her with no irrelevance. “You’ve been found out.” For a moment she wondered, had he guessed it then, her secret? He had never known anything about it, and it was not likely that he should know now. He was indeed very far from knowing when he could think that it was seeing her that did it. There was, of course, the other secret, the fact that he did see her; but she had never allowed that it _was_ a secret, or that it need be, although they guarded it so carefully. Anybody, except Bella, who wouldn’t understand it, was welcome to know that he came to see her. He must mean that. “Found out?” she repeated. “If you haven’t been, you will be.” “You mean,” she said, “Sarratt End has been found out?” “If you put it that way. I saw the Powells at the station.” (She breathed freely.) [Illustration: “I saw the Powells at the station.”] “They told me they’d taken rooms at some farm here.” “Which farm?” He didn’t remember. “Was it Woodman’s Farm?” she asked. And he said, “Yes, that was the name they’d told him. Whereabouts was it?” “Don’t you know,” she said. “That’s the name of _your_ farm.” He had not known it, and was visibly annoyed at knowing it now. And Agatha herself felt some dismay. If it had been any other place but Woodman’s Farm—it stared at them; it watched them; it knew all their goings out and their comings in; it knew Rodney; not that that had mattered in the least, but the Powells, when they came, would know too. She tried to look as if that didn’t matter either, while they faced each other in a silence, a curious, unfamiliar discomposure. She recovered first. “After all,” she said, “why shouldn’t they?” “Well—I thought you weren’t going to tell people.” Her face mounted a sudden flame, a signal of resentment. She had always resented the imputation of secrecy in their relations. And now it was as if he were dragging forward the thought that she perpetually put away from her. “Tell about what?” she asked, coldly. “About Sarratt End. I thought we’d agreed to keep it for ourselves.” “I haven’t told everybody. But I did tell Milly Powell.” “My dear girl, that wasn’t very clever of you.” “I told her not to tell. She knows what I want to be alone for.”