“Perhaps not,”—­said Roxmouth, quietly—­“But I can hardly refuse to accept the witness of my own eyes and ears.”  And, attended by an almost breathless silence on the part of his auditors, he related with an air of patient endurance and compassionate regret, his own account of the interview between Maryllia and Walden in the picture-gallery, exaggerating something here, introducing a suggestive insinuation there, suppressing the simplicity of the true facts, and inserting falsehood wherever convenient, till he had succeeded in placing Walden’s good name at Miss Tabitha’s cat-like mercy for her to rend and pounce upon to the utmost extent of her own jaundiced rage and jealous venom.

Nothing could equal or surpass Sir Morton’s amazement and wrath as he listened to the narration.  His eyes seemed to literally start out of his head,—­his throat swelled visibly till a fat ridge of flesh lolled over the edge of his stiff shirt-collar, and he threw in various observations of his own with regard to Walden, such as ‘Sniveling puppy!’ ‘Canting rascal!’ ‘Elderly humbug!’ ’Sneaking upstart,’ which were quite in accordance with his native good taste and refinement of speech.  And when at last his stock of expletives became, for the time being, exhausted, and when Miss Tabitha’s dumb viciousness had, like an invisible sculptor’s chisel, carved sudden deep lines in her face as fitting accompaniments to the deepening malice of her thoughts, they all rose from the luncheon table and went their several ways in their several moods of disconcerted confusion, impotence and vexation, in search of fresh means to gain new and unexpected ends.  Roxmouth, reluctantly yielding to the earnest persuasions of Longford, walked with him into the village of St. Rest, and made enquiries at the post-office as to whether Miss Vancourt’s sudden departure was known there, or whether any instructions had been left as to the forwarding of her letters.  But the postmistress, Mrs. Tapple, breathing hard and curtseying profoundly to the ‘future Dook’ declared she ‘’adn’t heard nothink,’ and ’’adn’t ‘ad no orders.’  Miss Vancourt’s letters and telegrams all went up to the Manor as usual.  Whereupon, still guided by the astute Longford, Roxmouth so far obeyed Maryllia’s parting suggestion as to go and ‘kindly call’ upon Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby at the Manor itself.  The beautiful old house looked the same as usual; there were no shutters up, no blinds drawn, in any of the windows,—­nothing indicated absence on the part of the reigning mistress of the fair domain; and even the dog Plato was comfortably snoozing according to daily custom, on the sun-baked flag-stones in the Tudor court.  Primmins opened the door to them with his usual well-trained and imperturbable demeanour.

“Miss Vancourt is not at home?” began Roxmouth tentatively.

“Miss Vancourt has left for the Continent, my lord,” replied Primmins, sedately.

Longford exchanged a swift glance with his patron.  The latter gave a slight, weary shrug of his shoulders.