“The Duke’s a shrewd man,” Mr. Moyat declared.  “It’s easy to talk.”

“If he hasn’t lost money,” Mrs. Moyat demanded, “why is Rowchester Castle let to that American millionaire?  Why doesn’t he live there himself?”

“Prefers the East Coast,” Mr. Moyat declared cheerfully.  “More bracing, and suits his constitution better.  I’ve heard him say so himself.”

“That is all very well,” Mrs. Moyat said, “but I can’t see that Rowchester is a fit country house for a nobleman.  What do you think, Mr. Ducaine?”

I was more interested in the discussion than anxious to be drawn into it, so I returned an evasive reply.  Mrs. Moyat nodded sympathetically.

“Of course,” she said, “you haven’t seen the house except from the road, but I’ve been over it many a time when Mrs. Felton was housekeeper and the Duke didn’t come down so often, and I say that it’s a poor place for a Duke.”

“Well, well, mother, we won’t quarrel about it,” Mr. Moyat declared, rising from the table.  “I must just have a look at the mare.  Do you look after Mr. Ducaine, Blanche.”

To my annoyance the retreat of Mr. and Mrs. Moyat was evidently planned, and accelerated by a frown from their daughter.  Blanche and I were left alone—­whereupon I, too, rose to my feet.”

“I must be going,” I said, looking at the clock.

Blanche only laughed, and bade me sit down by her side.

“I’m so glad dad brought you in to-night,” she said.  “Did he say anything to you?”

“What about?”

“Never mind,” she answered archly.  “Did he say anything at all?”

“He remarked once or twice that it was a wet night,” I said.

“Stupid!” she exclaimed.  “You know what I mean.”

“He did make me a very kind offer,” I admitted.

She looked at me eagerly.

“Well?”

“I told him that I am expecting an offer of work of some sort from the
Duke.  Of course it may not come.  In any case, it was very kind of Mr.
Moyat.”

She drew a little closer to me.

“It was my idea,” she whispered.  I put it into his head.”

“Then it was very kind of you too,” I answered.  She was apparently disappointed.  We sat for several moments in silence.  Then she looked around with an air of mystery, and whispered still more softly into my ear—­

“I haven’t said a word about that—­to anybody.”

“Thank you very much,” I answered.  “I was quite sure that you wouldn’t, as you had promised.”

Again there was silence.  She looked at me with some return of that half fearsome curiosity which had first come into her eyes when I made my request.

“Wasn’t the inquest horrid?” she said.  “Father says they were five hours deciding—­and there’s old Joe Hassell; even now he won’t believe that—­that—­he came from the sea.”

“It isn’t a pleasant subject,” I said quietly.  “Let us talk of something else.”