“I was not attentive,” said Rand, “and my horse is a masterful brute.  Pray assure Miss Dandridge and your brother of my gratitude.  I am under deep obligation to all at Fontenoy.”

“It is a kindly place,” said Cary simply.  He looked about him.  “The blue room!  When I was a boy and came a-visiting, they always put me here.  That screen would set me dreaming—­and the blue roses and the moon clock.  I used to lie in that bed and send myself to sleep with more tales than are in the Arabian Nights.  There’s a rift in the poplars through which you can see a very bright star—­Sirius, I believe.  May you have pleasant dreams, Mr. Rand, in my old bed!” He glanced from Rand’s flushed face to the papers strewn upon the counterpane.  “You have been writing?  Would Dr. Gilmer approve?”

Rand looked somewhat ruefully at the scrawled sheets and the ink upon his fingers.  “It is a necessary paper of instructions,” he said.  “I was retained by the State for the North Garden murder case.  It is to be tried next week—­and here am I, laid by the heels!  My associate must handle it.”  He made a movement of impatience.  “He’s skilful enough, but he’s not the sort to convince a jury—­especially in Albemarle, where they don’t like to hang people.  If he’s left to himself, Fitch may go free.”

“The murderer?”

“Yes, the murderer.  These,” he laid his hand upon the papers, “are the points that must be made.  If Mocket follows instructions, the State will win.  But I wish that Selim had not chosen to break my right arm—­it is difficult to write with the left hand.”

“Could not Mr. Mocket take his instructions directly from you?”

Rand moved again impatiently, and with a quick sigh.  “I sent him word not to come.  I will not bring a friend or ally where I myself must seem an intruder and a most unwelcome guest.  There’s a fine irony in human affairs!  Selim might have thrown me before Edgehill or Dunlora—­but to choose Fontenoy!” He looked at Cary with a certain appeal.  “I shall, of course, remove myself as soon as possible.  In the meantime, if you could assure me that Colonel Churchill and his family understand—­”

“Set your mind at rest,” said Cary at once.  “Colonel Churchill is the soul of kindness and hospitality, and the ladies of Fontenoy are all angels.  You must not think yourself an unwelcome guest.”  He glanced again at the papers.  “I am sure you should not try to write.  Will you not accept me as amanuensis?  The matter is not private?”

Not at all:  but—­”

“Then let me write from your dictation.  I have nothing at all to do for the next two hours,—­I am staying in the house, you know,—­and it will give me genuine pleasure to help you.  You have no business with such labour.  Dr. Gilmer, I know, must have forbidden it.  Come!  I write a very fair clerkly hand.”

“You don’t know the imposition,” said Rand, with an answering smile.  “It is nothing less than a Treatise on Murder.”