A new look came into Mrs. Radbolt’s green eyes.  Up to now, distrust of Beaumaroy had predominated.  His frank bearing, his obvious candor and simplicity, had weakened her suspicions.  But his words suggested something else; he might be a fool, not a knave; Mr. Saffron had been amused, had laughed beyond his wont.  That might have seemed the best way of putting Beaumaroy off the scent.  The green eyes were now alert, eager, immensely acquisitive.

“The grave’s in the Tower, if it’s anywhere.  Would you like to see the Tower, Mrs. Radbolt?”

“Yes, I should,” she answered tartly.  “Being part of our property as it is.”

Mary exchanged a glance with Mr. Naylor, as they followed the others into the Tower.  “What an abominable woman!” her glance said.  Naylor smiled a despairing acquiescence.

The strangers—­chief mourners, heirs-at-law, owners now of the place wherein they stood—­looked round the bare brick walls of the little rotunda.  Naylor examined it with interest too—­the old story was a quaint one.  Mary stood at the back of the group, smiling triumphantly.  How had he disposed of—­everything?  She had not been wrong in her unlimited confidence in his ingenuity.  She did not falter in her faith in his word pledged to her.

“Safe from burglars, that grave of the Captain’s, if you kept it properly concealed!” Beaumaroy pursued in a sort of humorous meditation.  “And in these days some people like to have their money in their own hands.  Confiscatory legislation possible, isn’t it, Mr. Naylor?  You know about those things better than I do.  And then the taxes—­shocking, Mr. Radbolt!  By Jove, I knew a chap the other day who came in for what sounded like a pretty little inheritance.  But by the time he’d paid all the duties and so on, most of the gilt was off the gingerbread!  It’s there—­in front of the hearth—­that the story says the grave is.  Doesn’t it, Mr. Naylor?” A sudden thought seemed to strike him, “I say, Mrs. Radbolt, would you like us to have a look whether we can find any indications of it?” His eyes traveled beyond the lady whom he addressed.  They met Mary’s.  She knew their message; he was taking her into his confidence about his experiment with the chief mourners.

The stout angular woman had leapt to her conclusion.  Much less money than had been expected—­no signs of money having been spent and here, not the cunning knave whom she had expected, but a garrulous open fool, giving away what was perhaps a golden secret!  Mammon, the greed of acquisitiveness, the voracious appetite for getting more, gleamed in her green eyes.

“There?  Do you say it’s—­it’s supposed to be there?” she asked eagerly, with a shake in her voice.

Her husband interposed in a suave and sanctimonious voice:  “My dear, if Mr. Beaumaroy and the other gentleman won’t mind my saying so, I’ve been feeling that these are rather light and frivolous topics for the day, and the occasion which brings us here.  The whole thing is probably an unfounded story, although there is a sound moral to it.  Later on, just as a matter of curiosity, if you like, my dear.  But to-day, Cousin Aloysius’s day of burial, is it quite seemly?”