through my consular letters—­some matter concerning the death of a relation of hers, and some wearisome question of property.  I thought that it was of little importance, and that she would not take it seriously, but I find I was mistaken.  It may even oblige her to catch the London train to-night.  I promised to make her excuses to you for the present, and I’m afraid I must add my own to them, as she wishes me to stay and advise her in this matter, which requires some prompt action.”

Miss Desborough was right:  the magic word “property” changed the slight annoyance on the earl’s face to a sympathetic concern.  “Dear me!  I trust it is nothing really serious,” he said.  “Of course, you will advise her, and, by the way, if my solicitor, Withers, who’ll be here to-morrow, can do anything, you know, call him in.  I hope she’ll be able to see me later.  It could not be a near relation who died, I fancy; she has no brothers or sisters, I understand.”

“A cousin, I think; an old friend,” said the consul hastily.  He heard Lord Beverdale say a few words to his companions, saw with a tinge of remorse a cloud settle upon Lord Algernon’s fresh face, as he appealed in a whisper to old Lady Mesthyn, who leaned forward from the carriage, and said, “If the dear child thought I could be of any service, I should only be too glad to stay with her.”

“I knew she would appreciate Lady Mesthyn’s sympathy,” said the ingenious consul quickly, “but I really think the question is more a business one—­and”—­

“Ah, yes,” said the old lady, shaking her head, “it’s dreadful, of course, but we must all think of that!”

As the carriage drove away, the consul hurried back a little viciously to his fair countrywoman.  “There!” he said, “I have done it!  If I have managed to convey either the idea that you are a penniless orphan, or that I have official information that you are suspected of a dynamite conspiracy, don’t blame me!  And now,” he said, “as I have excused myself on the ground that I must devote myself to this dreadful business of yours, perhaps you’ll tell me what it really is.”

“Not a word more,” said Miss Desborough; “except,” she added,—­checking her smile with a weary gesture,—­“except that I want to leave this dreadful place at once!  There! don’t ask me any more!”

There could be no doubt of the girl’s sincerity.  Nor was it the extravagant caprice of a petted idol.  What had happened?  He might have believed in a lovers’ quarrel, but he knew that she and Lord Algernon could have had no private interview that evening.  He must perforce accept her silence, yet he could not help saying:—­

“You seemed to like the place so much last night.  I say, you haven’t seen the Priory ghost, have you?”

“The Priory ghost,” she said quickly.  “What’s that?”

“The old monk who passes through the cloisters with the sacred oil, the bell, and the smell of incense whenever any one is to die here.  By Jove! it would have been a good story to tell instead of this cock-and-bull one about your property.  And there was a death here to-day.  You’d have added the sibyl’s gifts to your other charms.”