“Coriander?  Oil of sassafras?  I don’t know what the dickens they are.  Have you found such things here?”

“No; simply smelt them.  The combination is not usual—­indeed, I know of but one race in the world who make any use of it, and they merely for a purpose which, of course, could not possibly exist here, unless—­”

He allowed the rest of the sentence to go by default, and turning, looked all round the place.  For the first time he seemed to notice something unusual for the equipment of a stable, and regarded it with silent interest.  It was nothing more nor less than a box, covered with sheets of virgin cork, and standing on the floor just under one of the windows, where the light and air could get to a weird-looking, rubbery-leaved, orchid-like plant, covered with ligulated scarlet blossoms which grew within it.

“Sir Henry,” he said, after a moment, “may I ask how long it is since you were in South America?”

“I?  Never was there in my life, Mr. Cleek—­never.”

“Ah!  Then who connected with the hall has been?”

“Oh, I see what you are driving at,” said Sir Henry, following the direction of his gaze.  “That Patagonian plant, eh?  That belonged to poor Tolliver.  He had a strange fancy for ferns and rock plants and things of that description, and as that particular specimen happens to be one that does better in the atmosphere of a stable than elsewhere, he kept it in here.”

“Who told him that it does better in the atmosphere of a stable?”

“Lady Wilding’s cousin, Mr. Sharpless.  It was he who gave Tolliver the plant.”

“Oho!  Then Mr. Sharpless has been to South America, has he?”

“Why, yes.  As a matter of fact, he comes from there; so also does Lady Wilding.  I should have thought you would have remembered that, Mr. Cleek, when—­But perhaps you have never heard?  She—­they—­that is,” stammering confusedly and colouring to the temples, “up to seven months ago, Mr. Cleek, Lady Wilding was on the—­er—­music-hall stage.  She and Mr. Sharpless were known as ’Signor Morando and La Belle Creole’—­they did a living statue turn together.  It was highly artistic; people raved; I—­er—­fell in love with the lady and—­that’s all!”

But it wasn’t; for Cleek, reading between the lines, saw that the mad infatuation which had brought the lady a title and an over-generous husband had simmered down—­as such things always do sooner or later—­and that the marriage was very far from being a happy one.  As a matter of fact, he learned later that the county, to a woman, had refused to accept Lady Wilding; that her ladyship, chafing under this ostracism, was for having a number of her old professional friends come down to visit her and make a time of it, and that, on Sir Henry’s objecting, a violent quarrel had ensued, and the Rev. Ambrose Smeer had come down to the hall in the effort to make peace.  And he learned something else that night which gave him food for deep reflection:  the Rev. Ambrose Smeer, too, had been to South America, and when he met that gentleman—­well, in spite of the fact that Sir Henry thought so highly of him, and it was known that his revival meetings had done a world of good, Cleek did not fancy the Rev. Ambrose Smeer any more than he fancied the trainer, Logan.