They walked obliquely across the park towards the house, regaining it through a clump of laurels and the conservatory.

It chanced that for a moment they were silent.  Margaret led the way.  Helen followed.  Brett came close behind.

When the mistress of Beechcroft Hall stepped on to the turf in front of the library, a man who was standing under the yews a little way down the avenue moved forward to accost her.

She uttered a little cry of alarm and retreated quickly.

“Why, Davie,” cried Helen, “surely it cannot be you!”

The stranger made no reply, but paused irresolutely.  Even in the dim light Brett needed no second glance to reveal to him the astounding coincidence that this mysterious prowler was Robert Hume-Frazer.

“Good evening,” he said politely.  “Do you wish to see your cousin?”

“And who the devil may you be?” was the uncompromising answer.

“A friend of Mrs. Capella’s.”

“H’m!  I’m glad to hear it.  I thought you could not be that beastly Italian.”

“You are candour itself; but you have not answered me?”

“About seeing my cousin?  No.  I will call when she is less engaged.”

He turned to go, but Brett caught him by the shoulder.

“Will you come quietly,” he said, “or by the scruff of the neck?”

The other man wheeled round again.  That he feared no personal violence was evident.  Indeed, it was possible Brett had over-estimated his own strength in suggesting the alternative.

The Argentine cousin laughed boisterously.

“By the Lord Harry,” he cried, “I like your style!  I will come in, if only to have a good look at you.”

They approached the two frightened women.  Margaret had recognised his voice, and now advanced with outstretched hand.

“I am glad to see you, Robert,” she said in tones that vibrated somewhat.  “Why did you not let me know you were coming?”

“Because I did not know myself until an hour before I left London.  Moreover, you might have wired and told me to stop away, so I sailed without orders.”

The position was awkward.  The new-comer had evidently walked from Stowmarket.  He had the appearance of a gentleman, soiled and a trifle truculent, perhaps, but a man of birth and good breeding.

Helen was gazing at him in sheer wonderment He was so extremely like David that, at a distance, it was easy to confuse the one with the other.

Brett, too, examined him curiously.  He recalled “Rabbit Jack’s” pronouncement—­“either the chap hisself or his dead spit.”

But it behoved him to rescue the ladies from an impasse.

“When you reached Stowmarket did the stationmaster exhibit any marked interest in you?” he inquired.

“Well, now, that beats the band,” cried Robert.  “He looked at me as though I had seven heads and horns to match.  But how did you know that?”