His mind and memory swung back, in spite of himself, to his late wife.  Milly Fauncey had liked him almost from the first day they had met.  It had been like the attraction—­but of course that was the very last simile that would have occurred to Varick himself—­of a rabbit for a cobra.  He had had but to look at the self-absorbed, shy, diffident human being, to fascinate and draw her to himself.  The task would have been almost too easy, but for the dominant personality of poor Milly’s companion, Julia Pigchalke.  She had fought against him, tooth and claw; but, cunning old Dame Nature had been on his side in the fight, and, of course, Nature had won.

Miss Pigchalke had always made the fatal mistake of keeping her ex-pupil too much to herself.  And during a certain fatal three days when the companion had been confined to her hotel bedroom by a bad cold, the friendship of shy, nervous Milly Fauncey, and of bold, confident Lionel Varick, had fast ripened, fostered by the romantic Italian atmosphere.  During these three days Varick, almost without trying to do so, had learnt all there was to learn of the simple-minded spinster and of her financial circumstances.  But he was not the man to take any risk, and he had actually paid a flying visit to London—­a visit of which he had later had the grace to feel secretly ashamed—­for it had had for object that of making quite sure, at Somerset House, that Miss Fauncey’s account of herself was absolutely correct.

Yes, the wooing of Milly Fauncey had been almost too easy, and he knew that he was not likely to be so fortunate this time.  But now the prize to be won was such an infinitely greater prize!

He told himself that he mustn’t be impatient.  This, after all, was only the second day of Helen Brabazon’s stay at Wyndfell Hall.  Perhaps it was a good thing that her cantankerous old uncle had betaken himself off.  Misfortune had a way of turning itself into good fortune where Lionel Varick was concerned; for he was bold and brave, as well as always ready to seize opportunity at the flood.

When, at last, they had almost finished their tour of the house, and he was showing her into the haunted room, she clapped her hands delightedly.  “This is exactly the sort of room in which one would expect to meet a ghost!” she exclaimed.

The room into which she had just been ushered had, in very truth, a strange, unused, haunted look.  Very different from that into which Helen had just peeped.  For Miss Farrow’s present bed-chamber, with its tapestried and panelled walls, its red brocaded curtains, and carved oak furniture, the whole lit up by a bright, cheerful fire, was very cosy.  But here, in the haunted room next door, the fire was only lit at night, and now one of the windows over the moat was open, and it was very cold.

Helen went over to the open window.  She leant over and stared down into the dark, sullen-looking water.

“How beautiful this place must be in summer!” she exclaimed.