“Come with me, and I’ll get you a brush,” she urged.  And I followed her through the long corridors and upstairs to a small sitting-room which was her own little sanctum, where she worked and read—­a cosy little place with two queer old windows in the colossal wall, and a floor of polished oak, and great black beams above.  When the owner had occupied the house that room had been disused, but it had, I found, been now completely transformed, and was a most tasteful little nest of luxury with its bright chintzes, its Turkey rugs and its cheerful fire on the old stone hearth.

She laughed when I expressed admiration of her little den, and said—­

“I believe it was the armory in the old days.  But it makes quite a comfy little boudoir.  I can lock myself in and be quite quiet when the party are too noisy,” she added merrily.

But as my eyes wandered around they suddenly fell upon an object which caused me to start with profound wonder—­a cabinet photograph in a frame of crimson leather.

The picture was that of a young girl—­a duplicate of the portrait I had found torn across and flung aside on board the Lola!

The merry eyes laughed out at me as I stood staring at it in sheer bewilderment.

“What a pretty girl!” I exclaimed quickly, concealing my surprise.  “Who is she?”

My companion was silent a moment, her dark eyes meeting mine with a strange look of inquiry.

“Yes,” she laughed, “everyone admires her.  She was a schoolfellow of mine—­Elma Heath.”

“Heath!” I echoed.  “Where was she at school with you?”

“At Chichester.”

“Long ago?”

“A little over two years.”

“She’s very beautiful!” I declared, taking up the photograph and discovering that it bore the name of the same well-known photographer in New Bond Street as that I had found on the carpet of the Lola in the Mediterranean.

“Yes.  She’s really prettier than her photograph.  It hardly does her justice.”

“And where is she now?”

“Why are you so very inquisitive, Mr. Gregg?” laughed the handsome girl.  “Have you actually fallen in love with her from her picture?”

“I’m hardly given to that kind of thing, Miss Leithcourt,” I answered with mock severity.  “I don’t think even my worst enemy could call me a flirt, could she?”

“No.  I will give you your due,” she declared.  “You never do flirt.  That is why I like you.”

“Thanks for your candor, Miss Leithcourt,” I said.

“Only,” she added, “you seem smitten with Elma’s charms.”

“I think she’s extremely pretty,” I remarked, with the photograph still in my hand.  “Do you ever see her now?”

“Never,” she replied.  “Since the day I left school we have never met.  She was several years younger than myself, and I heard that a week after I left Chichester her people came and took her away.  Where she is now I have no idea.  Her people lived somewhere in Durham.  Her father was a doctor.”