Mr. Parmalee busied himself some five minutes in profound silence.  Then—­

“Where is she to-day?  Ain’t she about?”

“No.  I told you she was ill.  She complained of headache after you left yesterday, and went up to her own room.  I have not seen her since.”

Mr. Parmalee began to whistle a negro melody, and still went industriously on with his work.

“I don’t think nothing of that,” he remarked, after a prolonged pause.  “Fine ladies all have headaches.  Knowed heaps of ’em to home—­all had it.  You have yourself sometimes, I guess.”

“No,” said Sybilla; “I’m not a fine lady.  I have no time to sham headaches, and I have no secrets to let loose.  I am only a fine lady’s companion, and all the world is free to know my history.”

And then Miss Silver looked at Mr. Parmalee, and Mr. Parmalee looked at Miss Silver, with the air of two accomplished duelists waiting for the word.

“He’s as sharp as a razor,” thought the lady, “and as shy as a partridge.  Half measures won’t do with him.  I must fight him on his own ground.”

“By jingo! she’s as keen as a catamount!” thought the gentleman, in a burst of admiration.  “She’ll be a credit to the man that marries her.  What a pity she don’t belong down to Maine.  She’s a sight too cute for a born Britisher.”

There was a long pause.  Miss Silver and Mr. Parmalee looked each other full in the eye without winking.  All at once the gentleman burst out laughing.

“Get out!” said Mr. Parmalee.  “Go ’long—­do!  You’re too smart for this world—­you are, by gosh!  Miss Sybilla Silver.”

“Almost smart enough for a Yankee, Mr. Parmalee, and wonderfully good at guessing.”

“Yes?  And what have you guessed this time?”

“That you have Lady Kingsland’s secret; that that portrait—­the last of the five—­is the clew.  That you hold the baronet’s bride in the hollow of your hand!”

She spoke the last words close to his ear, in a fierce, sibilant whisper.  The American actually recoiled.

“Go ’long!” repeated Mr. Parmalee.  “Don’t you go whistling in a fellow’s ear like that, Miss S.; it tickles.  Got any more to say?”

“Only this:  that you had better make a friend of me, Mr. Parmalee.”

“And if I don’t, Miss S.?  If I prefer to do as we do in euchre, ’go it alone’—­what then?”

“Then!” cried Sybilla, with a blaze of her black eyes, “I’ll take the game out of your hands.  I’ll foil you with your own weapons.  I never failed yet.  I’ll not fail now.  I’m a match for a dozen such as you!”

“I believe, in my soul, you are!” exclaimed the artist, in a burst of admiring enthusiasm.  “You’re the real grit, and no mistake.  I do admire spunky girls—­I do, by jingo!  I always thought if I married and fetched a Mrs. George Washington Parmalee down to Maine, she’d have to be something more than common.  And you’re not common, Miss S.—­not by a long chalk!  I never met your match in my life.”