“Blue?” Rawson-Clew’s interest became more real; he had once heard of blue in connection with a daffodil.  It was one evening on a long flat Dutch road—­the evening he had tied Julia’s shoe.  She had spoken of it, she had begun to say, when he stopped the confession that he thought she would afterwards regret, that she could not take the blue daffodil.

“What is the name?” he asked; he meant of the grower in Norfolk, though he would have been puzzled to say why he asked.

Miss Farham, however, mistook his meaning and thought he was asking about the flower. “‘The Good Comrade,’” she said, and fortunately she did not see his surprise.  “Rather quaint, is it not?” she went on.  “Easier to remember, too, than some obscure grand duchess, or the name of the grower or his wife after whom new flowers are usually called.  The blue daffodil, you know, is called after one of the grower’s relatives—­Vrouw Van Heigen.”

Rawson-Clew said “Yes,” though he did not know it before.  It struck him as interesting now; the Van Heigens had a blue daffodil then, and Julia went to them for some purpose besides earning a pittance as companion.  She had not taken a blue daffodil; she said so; she also said at another time she had failed in the object of her coming and that failure and success would have been alike discreditable.  Poor Julia!  And now here was some one in Norfolk exhibiting a daffodil of mixed blue and yellow called, by a strange coincidence, “The Good Comrade.”  Of course, it was only a coincidence and yet, when reason is not helping as much as it ought, one is inclined to take notice of signs and coincidences.

“What is the name of the grower of this new flower?” Rawson-Clew asked.

Miss Farham told him.

“Snooks,” he repeated thoughtfully; she imagined he was trying to remember if he had heard the name before.  He was not; he was wondering if any one ever really started in life with such a name; if, rather, it did not sound more like the pseudonym of one who was indifferent to public credence, and possibly public opinion.

Rawson-Clew was not able to tell Miss Farham anything about the grower of the streaked daffodil; he was obliged to own that he had never heard of her before.  But he made it his business to find out what he could in the shortest possible time; this he did not mention to Miss Farham.  What he discovered did not amount to much, very little in fact, but such as it was, it was enough to bring him to Halgrave.

CHAPTER XVIII

BEHIND THE CHOPPING-BLOCK

Captain Polkington, Johnny and Julia were busy in the garden.  It was a fine afternoon following after two or three wet days and the ground was in splendid condition for planting, also for sticking to clothes.  The sandy road to Halgrave dried quickly, but the garden, of heavier soil, did not, as was testified by Julia’s boots—­she had bought a small pair of plough-boy’s boots that spring and was wearing them now, very pleased with the investment.  By and by the sound of a motor broke the silence; the Captain and Johnny left off work to listen; at least, Johnny did; the Captain was hardly in a position to leave off, seeing that he was off most of his time.