"How can one talk of such things in the midst of such lovely scenery as you have here?" she cried, and put up a tortoise-shell lorgnette to survey The Camp. "Quite delicious. I shall make this a kind of country-house. So odd, you know, with all these railway carriages. Dear Mr. Alpenny! he was so very queer in his tastes. But I'll come here with you, dearest Beatrice, and we'll garden and live like milkmaids--like Marie Antoinette, you know. Rural life--delicious." "I am going to live at the Grange, Lady Watson." "But I want you to be my companion. I insist." Lady Watson spoke with some sharpness, as apparently she was a lady not accustomed to be thwarted in her wishes. "I have arranged to live at the Grange," said Beatrice, and Durban nodded his approval; "for a time, that is. Afterwards, I intend to go out as a governess." "What! With that face and figure? You foolish girl, I won't allow it. You must enter society on my money--or rather on that poor creature's, Alpenny's, money--and marry and----" "I don't think you have any right to tell me what to do, Lady Watson," said Beatrice, annoyed by this imperious air. "As your mother's dearest friend?" "I don't recognise that as an authority. But if you will give me your address in town, I'll come and see you and talk about my dear mother. I want to know everything about her." "I can tell you nothing," said Lady Watson tartly; "that is, I won't, unless you come as my companion." "Lady Watson, I thank you very much for your offer; but I go to the Grange, and as I am already overdue, I must leave you now. Good-day." She held out her hand, which Lady Watson waved aside. "You provoking girl, I won't say good-day. I am stopping with Mrs. Snow, and will come and see you at the Grange. Give me a kiss"; and before Beatrice could stop her, Lady Watson kissed her warmly. When the little woman drew back, Beatrice saw to her surprise that the bright brown eyes were filled with tears. CHAPTER X MRS. LILLY'S STORY The funeral was over, and Jarvis Alpenny was buried beside the wife whom--according to rumour--he had so cruelly neglected. The excitement about his mysterious death was apparently buried with him, and Hurstable again became a somnolent hamlet, devoid of news and intelligence. In spite of every effort, the police were unable to trace the man with the black patch. No one seemed to know anything about him, and he had vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up. The local and London papers made their usual crass remarks about the inactivity and uselessness of the police, and, save in a rare paragraph, ceased to notice the matter. The murder was only a nine hours' wonder after all.