“You will if you stay here long.  You can’t get away from him if you’re in the same house.  Don’t tell anyone I said so; but he’s the real master here.  His lordship’s secretary he calls himself; but he’s really everything rolled into one—­like the man in the play.”

Ashe, searching in his dramatic memories for such a person in a play, inquired whether Miss Willoughby meant Pooh-Bah, in “The Mikado,” of which there had been a revival in London recently.  Miss Willoughby did mean Pooh-Bah.

“But Nosy Parker is what I call him,” she said.  “He minds everybody’s business as well as his own.”

The last of the procession trickled into the steward’s room.  Mr. Beach said grace somewhat patronizingly.  The meal began.

“You’ve seen Miss Peters, of course, Mr. Marson?” said Miss Willoughby, resuming conversation with the soup.

“Just for a few minutes at Paddington.”

“Oh!  You haven’t been with Mr. Peters long, then?”

Ashe began to wonder whether everybody he met was going to ask him this dangerous question.

“Only a day or so.”

“Where were you before that?”

Ashe was conscious of a prickly sensation.  A little more of this and he might as well reveal his true mission at the castle and have done with it.

“Oh, I was—­that is to say——­”

“How are you feeling after the journey, Mr. Marson?” said a voice from the other side of the table; and Ashe, looking up gratefully, found Joan’s eyes looking into his with a curiously amused expression.

He was too grateful for the interruption to try to account for this.  He replied that he was feeling very well, which was not the case.  Miss Willoughby’s interest was diverted to a discussion of the defects of the various railroad systems of Great Britain.

At the head of the table Mr. Beach had started an intimate conversation with Mr. Ferris, the valet of Lord Stockheath, the Honorable Freddie’s “poor old Percy”—­a cousin, Ashe had gathered, of Aline Peters’ husband-to-be.  The butler spoke in more measured tones even than usual, for he was speaking of tragedy.

“We were all extremely sorry, Mr. Ferris, to read of your misfortune.”

Ashe wondered what had been happening to Mr. Ferris.

“Yes, Mr. Beach,” replied the valet, “it’s a fact we made a pretty poor show.”  He took a sip from his glass.  “There is no concealing the fact—­I have never tried to conceal it—­that poor Percy is not bright.”

Miss Chester entered the conversation.

“I couldn’t see where the girl—­what’s her name? was so very pretty.  All the papers had pieces where it said she was attractive, and what not; but she didn’t look anything special to me from her photograph in the Mirror.  What his lordship could see in her I can’t understand.”

“The photo didn’t quite do her justice, Miss Chester.  I was present in court, and I must admit she was svelte—­decidedly svelte.  And you must recollect that Percy, from childhood up, has always been a highly susceptible young nut.  I speak as one who knows him.”