“Mr. Parmalee’s questions took a very narrow range; they only comprised one subject—­you and my lady.”

The young baronet looked up in haughty amaze.

“His curiosity on this subject was insatiable; your most minute biography would not have satisfied him.  About Lady Kingsland particularly—­in point of fact, I thought he must have known her in New York, his questions were so pointed, and I asked him so directly.”

“And what did he say?”

“Oh, he said no,” replied Sybilla, lightly, “but in such a manner as led me to infer yes.  However, it was evident, yesterday, that my lady had never set eyes on him before; but I did fancy, for an instant, she somehow recognized that picture.”

“What picture?” asked the baronet, sharply.

“That last portrait he showed her,” Miss Silver answered.  “Yet that may have been only fancy, too.”

“Then, Miss Silver, have the goodness to indulge in no more such fancies.  I don’t care to hear your suspicions and surmises, and I don’t choose to have my wife so minutely watched.  As for this too inquisitive Yankee, he had better cease his questions, if he wishes to quit England with sound bones!”

He arose angrily from the table, swept his letters together, and left the room.  But his face wore a deep-red flush, and, his bent brows never relaxed.  The first poisonous suspicion had entered his mind, and the calm of perfect trust would never reign there again.

Sybilla gazed after him with her dark, evil smile.

“Fume and fret as you please, my dear Sir Everard, but this is only sowing the first seed.  I shall watch your wife, and I will tell you my suspicions and my fancies, and you will listen in spite of your uplifted sublimity now.  Jealousy is ingrained in your nature, though you do not know it, and a very little breath will fan the tiny coal into an inextinguishable flame.”

She arose, rang the bell for the servant to clear the table, shook out her black silk robe, and went, with a smile on her handsome face, to do the fascinating to Mr. Parmalee.

She found that cautious gentleman busily arranging his implements in the picture-gallery, preparatory to taking sundry views of the noble room.  He nodded gravely to the young lady, and went steadfastly on with his work.

“You certainly lose no time, Mr. Parmalee,” Miss Silver said.  “I was remarking to Sir Everard at breakfast that you were a perfect devotee of art.”

“How does the baronet find himself this morning?” he asked.

“As usual—­well.”

“And her ladyship?” very carelessly.

“Her ladyship is not well.  I’m afraid your pretty pictures disagreed with her, Mr. Parmalee.”

“Hey?” said the artist, with a sharp, suspicious stare.

“She was perfectly well until you showed them to her.  She has been ill ever since.  One must draw one’s own inference.”