“That’s right.  It sounds silly, but——­”

“Not at all,” said Berry excitedly.  “He was looking for something.  It’s as clear as daylight.”  He turned to the picture.  “That’s William Pleydell, isn’t it, Vandy?  Seventeenth-century bloke.  The one Pepys mentions.”

My cousin nodded abstractedly.  With unseeing eyes he was staring out of a window.  It was patent that Adele’s recital had affected him strangely....

Berry laid a hand on his arm.

“Where’s the book you wrote?” he said gently.  “That may throw some light on it.”

One of our hostesses turned, as though she would fetch the volume.

“It went to be rebound yesterday,” cried Vandy in a strained, penetrating voice.

His sister stopped and stood still in her tracks.  A moment later she had turned back and was murmuring a confirmation.

Jonah, who had been busy with a pencil and the back of an envelope, limped towards us from one of the windows.

“The pedestal was a sundial,” he said.  Vandy looked at him sharply.  He turned to Adele.  “PER ...  IMP ... you said.  Try PEREUNT ET IMPUTANTUR.  Latin.  ‘The hours pass and are charged against us.’  You’ll find the phrase on five sundials out of six.”

A buzz of excited applause greeted this admirable contribution.

Adele looked at the written words.  “You are clever,” she said.  “Of course, that’s it.  It must be.”

Vandy’s reception of Jonah’s discovery convinced me that it had already occurred to him.  He applauded theatrically.  The fellow was playing a part, feverishly.  Besides, I did not believe his rotten book was being rebound.  That was a lie.  There was something there which he did not want us to see.  Not a doubt of it.  Well, we had a copy at White Ladies.  No!  Our copy was in Town.  Hang it!  What a sweep the man was!

With a horse-laugh he interrupted my reflections.

“Well, well, Miss Feste, I confess you gave me a shock.  Still, if you had to meet one of our forefathers, I could have wished it had been any other than the notorious William.  We enjoy his portrait, but we deplore his memory.  Ha!  Ha!  Now, we’re really proud of the next one—­his cousin, James Godstow Pleydell.  He it was who was responsible——­”

“Forgive me,” purred Daphne, “but I’m going to say we must fly.  I’d no idea it was so late.  People are coming to dinner, and we must go back by Brooch, because we’ve run out of ice.”

Our host protested—­not very heartily—­and was overruled.  Mutual regret was suitably expressed.  Without more ado we descended into the hall.  Here at the front door the decencies of leave-taking were observed.  The host and hostesses were thanked, the parting guests sped.  A moment later, we were sliding down the avenue to the lodge-gates.  As we swung on to the road—­

“Where’s the book?” said Daphne.  “That man’s a liar.”

“At Cholmondeley Street,” said I.  “But you’re right about Vandy.  He’s trying to keep something back.”