"Does it? Well--perhaps it does." "Don't you think it does?" "I thought it felt very like thunder an hour ago." "Rather more than an hour ago, wasn't it?" "Just after lunch--about two o'clock." "Dessay you're right. I should have said a quarter to." Now, if this sort of thing had continued, it must have ended in a joint laugh, and recognition of its absurdity. Aunt Constance may have foreseen this, inwardly, and not been prepared to go so fast. For she accommodated the conversation with a foothold, partly ethical, partly scientific. "Some people feel the effect of thunder much more than others. No doubt it is due to the electrical condition of the atmosphere. Before this was understood, it was ascribed to all sorts of causes." "I expect it's nerves. Haven't any myself! Rather like tropical storms than otherwise." Here was an opportunity to thaw the surface ice. The lady could have done it in an instant, by talking to the gentleman about himself. That is the "Open Sesame!" of human intercourse. She preferred to say that in their village--her clan's, that is--in Dorsetshire, there was a sept named Chobey that always went into an underground cellar and stopped its ears, whenever there was a thunderstorm. Mr. Pellew said weakly:--"It runs in families." He had to accept this one as authentic, but he would have questioned its existence if anonymous. He could not say:--"How do you know?" to an informant who could vouch for Chobey. Smith or Brown would have left him much freer. The foothold of the conversation was giving way, and a resolute effort was called for to give it stability. Mr. Pellew thought he saw his way. He said:--"How jolly it must be down at the Towers--day like this!" "Perfectly delicious!" was the answer. Then, in consideration of the remoteness of mere landscape from personalities, it was safe to particularise. "I really think that walk in the shrubbery, where the gentian grew in such quantity, is one of the sweetest places of the kind I ever was in." "I know I enjoyed my ..." Mr. Pellew had started to say that he enjoyed himself there. He got alarmed at his own temerity and backed out ... "my cigars there," said he. A transparent fraud, for the possessive pronoun does not always sound alike. "My," is one thing before "self," another before "cigars." Try it on both, and see. Mr. Pellew felt he was detected. He could slur over his blunder by going straight on; any topic would do. He decided on:--"By-the-by, did you see any more of the dog?" "Achilles? He went away, you know, with Mr. Torrens and his sister, a few days after." "I meant that. Didn't you say something about seeing him with the assassin--the old gamekeeper--what was his name?" "Old Stephen Solmes? Yes. I saw them walking together, apparently on the most friendly terms. Gwen told me afterwards. They were walking towards his cottage, and I believe Achilles saw him safe home, and came back."