“Oh, yes—­thank you so much—­if I had needed anybody.  But there were only too many kind friends.”

“Aha!  Yes, I expect so.”  His eye lighted and his lip curled craftily.  “I have no doubt whatever of that.  ‘Where the carcase is—­’ You know the rest?”

“I am not a carcase,” she rallied him playfully—­for quite the first time in her life.

“No, indeed; I should have said ‘prey’.  Ah, my dear De—­Miss Pennycuick, you will find plenty and to spare of so-called friends, professing anxiety to serve you, when their only object is to serve themselves.”

“I expect so,” she assented, smiling.

“So young a girl”—­subtle flattery this, now that Deb was in her late thirties—­“to be suddenly called to a position of such immense danger and responsibility!  But”—­cheeringly—­“I said when I heard of it that Mr Thornycroft had justified my high opinion of his judgment and character.  It is not often that great wealth comes into hands so worthy of it.”

“I am afraid they are not very worthy,” sighed Deb.  Mr Goldsworthy knew better.  He knew her better—­not only from personal intercourse, the observation and intuition of a man trained to read character, but from the loving representations of his dear wife.

“Where is she?” Miss Pennycuick asked abruptly.  “Not out, I hope?”

“Out—­hardly!  She will be here in a moment.  I am afraid, when you see her, you will think her looking delicate.  The state of her health is a matter of the most anxious concern to me.”

“What is the matter with her health?  She was always well at home.  We used to think her the strongest of the family—­until—­”

“Until she fell into the clutches of that dreadful man,” Mr Goldsworthy concluded for her.

“Oh!”—­Deb coloured and frowned—­“that is not what I was going to say.” (What she had really been going to say was—­“until her marriage.”) “And why do you rake up that old story?  I thought it had all been forgotten long ago.”

“It has been unpleasantly revived,” said Mr Goldsworthy solemnly.  “And it is my duty to tell you about it, if you have not heard.”

Deb looked equally annoyed and alarmed.  “What has been revived?” she asked.

He dropped his voice apologetically.

“I have been hearing of his going on in exactly the same way with another.”

“Oh,” sighed Deb, relieved that it was not Mary who had been the reviver; “then it’s no business of ours, thank goodness.”

“Pardon me—­it is very much our business,” he urged weightily.  “I grieve to tell you that it is your sister, Mrs Ewing, who is implicated in the affair.  Do you mean to say that you know nothing about it?”

Deb knew something, and so she put the question by.

“I don’t encourage scandalmongers.  Mrs Ewing is young and thoughtless—­ and pretty—­which naturally lays her open to ill—­natured gossip.”  “My informant is one of the least ill-natured of women; she is a person of the highest principle.”