“What did happen to it?” asked Eleanor.

“Well, Ronnie did some preliminary endeavouring with it, on his own account, in connection with the Grand National.  If it had come off, as he expressed it, he would have given the League twenty-five shillings and netted a comfortable commission for himself; as it was, that ten shillings was one of the things the League had to deny itself.  Since then I’ve been careful not to let him have a penny piece in his hands.”

“He’ll get round that in some way,” said Eleanor with quiet conviction; “he’ll sell things.”

“My dear, he’s done all that is to be done in that direction already.  He’s got rid of his wrist-watch and his hunting flask and both his cigarette cases, and I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s wearing imitation-gold sleeve links instead of those his Aunt Rhoda gave him on his seventeenth birthday.  He can’t sell his clothes, of course, except his winter overcoat, and I’ve locked that up in the camphor cupboard on the pretext of preserving it from moth.  I really don’t see what else he can raise money on.  I consider that I’ve been both firm and farseeing.”

“Has he been at the Norridrums lately?” asked Eleanor.

“He was there yesterday afternoon and stayed to dinner,” said Mrs. Attray.  “I don’t quite know when he came home, but I fancy it was late.”

“Then depend on it he was gambling,” said Eleanor, with the assured air of one who has few ideas and makes the most of them.  “Late hours in the country always mean gambling.”

“He can’t gamble if he has no money and no chance of getting any,” argued Mrs. Attray; “even if one plays for small stakes one must have a decent prospect of paying one’s losses.”

“He may have sold some of the Amherst pheasant chicks,” suggested Eleanor; “they would fetch about ten or twelve shillings each, I daresay.”

“Ronnie wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Mrs. Attray; “and anyhow I went and counted them this morning and they’re all there.  No,” she continued, with the quiet satisfaction that comes from a sense of painstaking and merited achievement, “I fancy that Ronnie had to content himself with the role of onlooker last night, as far as the card-table was concerned.”

“Is that clock right?” asked Eleanor, whose eyes had been straying restlessly towards the mantel-piece for some little time; “lunch is usually so punctual in your establishment.”

“Three minutes past the half-hour,” exclaimed Mrs. Attray; “cook must be preparing something unusually sumptuous in your honour.  I am not in the secret; I’ve been out all the morning, you know.”

Eleanor smiled forgivingly.  A special effort by Mrs. Attray’s cook was worth waiting a few minutes for.

As a matter of fact, the luncheon fare, when it made its tardy appearance, was distinctly unworthy of the reputation which the justly-treasured cook had built up for herself.  The soup alone would have sufficed to cast a gloom over any meal that it had inaugurated, and it was not redeemed by anything that followed.  Eleanor said little, but when she spoke there was a hint of tears in her voice that was far more eloquent than outspoken denunciation would have been, and even the insouciant Ronald showed traces of depression when he tasted the rognons Saltikoff.