With regard to this, one can only say that Keggs looks far too much like a particularly saintly bishop to indulge in any such practices.  On the other hand, Albert knows Keggs.  We must leave the matter open.

Of course, appearances are deceptive.  Anyone, for instance, who had been standing outside the front entrance of the castle at eleven o’clock on a certain June morning might easily have made a mistake.  Such a person would probably have jumped to the conclusion that the middle-aged lady of a determined cast of countenance who was standing near the rose-garden, talking to the gardener and watching the young couple strolling on the terrace below, was the mother of the pretty girl, and that she was smiling because the latter had recently become engaged to the tall, pleasant-faced youth at her side.

Sherlock Holmes himself might have been misled.  One can hear him explaining the thing to Watson in one of those lightning flashes of inductive reasoning of his.  “It is the only explanation, my dear Watson.  If the lady were merely complimenting the gardener on his rose-garden, and if her smile were merely caused by the excellent appearance of that rose-garden, there would be an answering smile on the face of the gardener.  But, as you see, he looks morose and gloomy.”

As a matter of fact, the gardener—­that is to say, the stocky, brown-faced man in shirt sleeves and corduroy trousers who was frowning into a can of whale-oil solution—­was the Earl of Marshmoreton, and there were two reasons for his gloom.  He hated to be interrupted while working, and, furthermore, Lady Caroline Byng always got on his nerves, and never more so than when, as now, she speculated on the possibility of a romance between her step-son Reggie and his lordship’s daughter Maud.

Only his intimates would have recognized in this curious corduroy-trousered figure the seventh Earl of Marshmoreton.  The Lord Marshmoreton who made intermittent appearances in London, who lunched among bishops at the Athenaeum Club without exciting remark, was a correctly dressed gentleman whom no one would have suspected of covering his sturdy legs in anything but the finest cloth.  But if you will glance at your copy of Who’s Who, and turn up the “M’s”, you will find in the space allotted to the Earl the words “Hobby—­Gardening”.  To which, in a burst of modest pride, his lordship has added “Awarded first prize for Hybrid Teas, Temple Flower Show, 1911”.  The words tell their own story.

Lord Marshmoreton was the most enthusiastic amateur gardener in a land of enthusiastic amateur gardeners.  He lived for his garden.  The love which other men expend on their nearest and dearest Lord Marshmoreton lavished on seeds, roses and loamy soil.  The hatred which some of his order feel for Socialists and Demagogues Lord Marshmoreton kept for roseslugs, rose-beetles and the small, yellowish-white insect which is so depraved and sinister a character that it goes through