On the other hand, she was a friend of the priest, and Mark had formed a very favorable opinion of Father Murray.  Then she had referred to the incident on the bluff road very openly and without embarrassment These things were in her favor, but—­well, the rest looked bad.  Above all was the danger of falling in love with her.

Mark thought of his people in England and of his brother the Irish peer.  He knew their prejudices.  What would they say if the heir presumptive to the barony came home with an American wife?  Yet why should he care?

The worry about Saunders came back.  He was undoubtedly a detective, and surely detectives did not without cause shadow ladies of good social standing?  Mark knew there was something wrong.  He knew there was danger to himself, to his heart, and to his peace; so he decided that he had better go away at once.  Then the face he had seen as she stepped past him out of the tree rose up, and he heard again the voice that had in it so much gratitude when she thanked him for his little service.

“Damn it, man,” he said to himself, “you can’t be a coward!  She needs help; stay to give it.”  That was Mark’s first and last struggle over his long-delayed moving problem.

He met Saunders at breakfast the next morning.  The detective must have been thinking, too, for his glance at Mark held a trifle of suspicion.  Mark was too old a student of human nature to miss the significance of the look, and Saunders was too young at his business entirely to conceal his own feelings.  He tried—­but too late—­and was foolish enough to think he had not betrayed himself.

Mark made up his mind to profit by the suspicion.

“Good morning, Saunders.  You are thinking of the lady in the veil?”

But Saunders was already back in his shell.  He looked puzzled.  “Veil?  Lady?  Oh, yes.  Sure I am.  It would be very ungallant to forget her.  She’s too pretty.”

“How do you know?  You didn’t see her face.”

“I was just guessing.  We Yankees are good at guessing.  Don’t you English concede that?”

“Guessing and wooden nutmegs,” said Mark, “both go with the Yankee character.”

“Guessing, wooden nutmegs, and a little taste of Brandywine thrown in for flavor.”

“Very unkind of you to throw our defeats in our teeth—­and especially into mine; for you know that I am half Irish, and we Irish helped you.”

Saunders laughed as they approached the desk together.

“Letter for you, Mr. Griffin,” said the clerk, throwing a square envelope on the desk.

Saunders just glanced at it before Mark himself saw that the letter was without a stamp; it had come by messenger.  The detective turned his back to hide a smile, then walked to the reading table and picked up a paper.

Mark opened his letter.  It was from the lady of the tree—­only a few lines—­an invitation to tea that afternoon at the house behind the great wall.  Twice he read it over.