“True.  But she’s got a spirit of her own, recollect.”

“That must be broken.”

“And what about Walter?”

“Oh, as soon as he finds out the truth he’ll drop her, never fear.  He’s already rather fond of that tall, dark girl of Dundas’s.  You saw her at the ball.  You recollect her?”

Flockart grunted.  He was assisting this woman at his side to play a desperate game.  This was not, however, the first occasion on which they had acted in conjunction in matters that were not altogether honourable.  There had never been any question of affection between them.  The pair regarded each other from a purely business standpoint.  People might gossip as much as ever they liked; but the two always congratulated themselves that they had never committed the supreme folly of falling in love with each other.  The woman had married Sir Henry merely in order to obtain money and position; and this man Flockart, who for years had been her most intimate associate, had ever remained behind her, to advise and to help her.

Perhaps had the Baronet not been afflicted he would have disapproved of this constant companionship, for he would, no doubt, have overheard in society certain tittle-tattle which, though utterly unfounded, would not have been exactly pleasant.  But as he was blind and never went into society, he remained in blissful ignorance, wrapped up in his mysterious “business” and his hobbies.

Gabrielle, on her return from school, had at first accepted Flockart as her friend.  It was he who took her for walks, who taught her to cast a fly, to shoot rooks, and to play the national winter game of Scotland—­curling.  He had in the first few months of her return home done everything in his power to attract the young girl’s friendship, while at the same time her ladyship showed herself extraordinarily well disposed towards her.

Within a year, however, by reason of various remarks made by people in her presence, and on account of the cold disdain with which Lady Heyburn treated her afflicted father, vague suspicions were aroused within her, suspicions which gradually grew to hatred, until she clung to her father, and, as his eyes and ears, took up a position of open defiance towards her mother and her adventurous friend.

The situation each day grew more and more strained.  Lady Heyburn was, even though of humble origin, a woman of unusual intelligence.  In various quarters she had been snubbed and ridiculed, but she gradually managed in every case to get the better of her enemies.  Many a man and many a woman had had bitter cause to repent their enmity towards her.  They marvelled how their secrets became known to her.

They did not know the power behind her—­the sinister power of that ingenious and unscrupulous man, James Flockart—­the man who made it his business to know other people’s secrets.  Though for years he had been seized with a desire to get at the bottom of Sir Henry’s private affairs, he had never succeeded.  The old Baronet was essentially a recluse; he kept himself so much to himself, and was so careful that no eyes save those of his daughter should see the mysterious documents which came to him so regularly by registered post, that all Flockart’s efforts and those of Lady Heyburn had been futile.