“I don’t think Lecount’s mad,” said Noel Vanstone, with a very blank look, and a very discomposed manner.  “It couldn’t have escaped me, with my habits of observation; it couldn’t possibly have escaped me if Lecount had been mad.”

“Very good, my dear sir.  In my opinion, she is the subject of an insane delusion.  In your opinion, she is in possession of her senses, and has some mysterious motive which neither you nor I can fathom.  Either way, there can be no harm in putting Mrs. Lecount’s description to the test, not only as a matter of curiosity, but for our own private satisfaction on both sides.  It is of course impossible to tell my niece that she is to be made the subject of such a preposterous experiment as that note of yours suggests.  But you can use your own eyes, Mr. Vanstone; you can keep your own counsel; and—­mad or not—­you can at least tell your housekeeper, on the testimony of your own senses, that she is wrong.  Let me look at the description again.  The greater part of it is not worth two straws for any purpose of identification; hundreds of young ladies have tall figures, fair complexions, light brown hair, and light gray eyes.  You will say, on the other hand, hundreds of young ladies have not got two little moles close together on the left side of the neck.  Quite true.  The moles supply us with what we scientific men call a Crucial Test.  When my niece comes downstairs, sir, you have my full permission to take the liberty of looking at her neck.”

Noel Vanstone expressed his high approval of the Crucial Test by smirking and simpering for the first time that morning.

“Of looking at her neck,” repeated the captain, returning the note to his visitor, and then making for the door.  “I will go upstairs myself, Mr. Vanstone,” he continued, “and inspect Miss Bygrave’s walking-dress.  If she has innocently placed any obstacles in your way, if her hair is a little too low, or her frill is a little too high, I will exert my authority, on the first harmless pretext I can think of, to have those obstacles removed.  All I ask is, that you will choose your opportunity discreetly, and that you will not allow my niece to suppose that her neck is the object of a gentleman’s inspection.”

The moment he was out of the parlor Captain Wragge ascended the stairs at the top of his speed and knocked at Magdalen’s door.  She opened it to him in her walking-dress, obedient to the signal agreed on between them which summoned her downstairs.

“What have you done with your paints and powders?” asked the captain, without wasting a word in preliminary explanations.  “They were not in the box of costumes which I sold for you at Birmingham.  Where are they?”

“I have got them here,” replied Magdalen.  “What can you possibly mean by wanting them now?”

“Bring them instantly into my dressing-room—­the whole collection, brushes, palette, and everything.  Don’t waste time in asking questions; I’ll tell you what has happened as we go on.  Every moment is precious to us.  Follow me instantly!”