“Tell me about that old man,” she said, looking past him out of the window.  “I was at his cottage this morning.  But, no! first let us go out.  You can take me for a walk, if you like.  You see I am all ready, and I’m just stifling here.”

They descended to the terrace together.  “Where would you like to go?” he asked.

“To the village.  I may want to telegraph, you know.”

They turned into the avenue, but Miss Desborough stopped.

“Is there not a shorter cut across the fields,” she asked, “over there?”

“There is,” said the consul.

They both turned into the footpath which led to the farm and stile.  After a pause she said, “Did you ever talk with that poor old man?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know if he really was crazy, as they think.”

“No.  But they may have thought an old man’s forgetfulness of present things and his habit of communing with the past was insanity.  For all that he was a plucky, independent old fellow, with a grim purpose that was certainly rational.”

“I suppose in his independence he would not have taken favors from these people, or anybody?”

“I should think not.”

“Don’t you think it was just horrid—­their leaving him alone in the rain, when he might have been only in a fit?”

“The doctor says he died suddenly of heart disease,” said the consul.  “It might have happened at any moment and without warning.”

“Ah, that was the coroner’s verdict, then,” said Miss Desborough quickly.

“The coroner did not think it necessary to have any inquest after Lord Beverdale’s statement.  It wouldn’t have been very joyous for the Priory party.  And I dare say he thought it might not be very cheerful for you.”

“How very kind!” said the young girl, with a quick laugh.  “But do you know that it’s about the only thing human, original, and striking that has happened in this place since I’ve been here!  And so unexpected, considering how comfortably everything is ordered here beforehand.”

“Yet you seemed to like that kind of thing very well, last evening,” said the consul mischievously.

“That was last night,” retorted Miss Desborough; “and you know the line, ‘Colors seen by candlelight do not look the same by day.’  But I’m going to be very consistent to-day, for I intend to go over to that poor man’s cottage again, and see if I can be of any service.  Will you go with me?”

“Certainly,” said the consul, mystified by his companion’s extraordinary conduct, yet apparent coolness of purpose, and hoping for some further explanation.  Was she only an inexperienced flirt who had found herself on the point of a serious entanglement she had not contemplated?  Yet even then he knew she was clever enough to extricate herself in some other way than this abrupt and brutal tearing through the meshes.  Or was it possible that she really had any intelligence affecting her property?  He reflected that he knew very little of the Desboroughs, but on the other hand he knew that Beverdale knew them much better, and was a prudent man.  He had no right to demand her confidence as a reward for his secrecy; he must wait her pleasure.  Perhaps she would still explain; women seldom could resist the triumph of telling the secret that puzzled others.