“I shall know all about it in due season,” thought the master of himself and his dependents.

Not that he meant to extort or wheedle it from his consort’s keeping, but he had implicit faith in his own detective talents.

“Here she is at last!” he said, when Mabel came down the staircase, holding Aunt Rachel’s hand, and talking low and earnestly, her noble face and even gliding step a refreshing contrast to Mrs. Aylett’s nervousness and Herbert’s dogged sullenness.

“I am sorry I have kept you so long, but there will be less dust than if we had gone sooner.  The other carriages will have had time to get out of our way,” she said, pleasantly.  “Winston,” coming up to her brother, and speaking in an undertone, “will it be quite convenient for you to send for Aunt Rachel on next Friday?”

“Entirely!  The carriage shall be at your service at any hour or day you wish,” with more cordiality than was common with him.

However treacherous others might be in their reserve and half-confessions, here was one who had never deceived him or knowingly misled him to believe her better, or otherwise, than she was.  Honesty and truth were stamped upon her face by a life-long practice of these homely virtues—­not by meretricious arts.  It was tardy justice, but he rendered it without grudging, if not heartily.

A few words passed as to the hour at which the carriage was to call for Mrs. Sutton, and Mabel kissed her “Good-by,” the others shaking hands with her, and with three or four of the Tazewell kinsmen who officiated as masters of ceremonies, and Mrs. Aylett made an impatient movement toward the front steps.  Directly in her route, leaning against a pillar of the old-fashioned porch, was Frederic Chilton, no longer dreamy and perplexed, but on the alert with eye and ear—­not losing one sound of her voice, or trick of feature.  She inclined her head slightly and courteously, the notice due a friend of the house she, as guest, was about to leave.  He did not bow, nor relax the rigor of his watch.  Only, when she was seated in the carriage, he bent respectfully and mutely before Mabel, who followed her hostess, and paying as little attention to the two gentlemen as they did to him walked up to Mrs. Sutton, and said something inaudible to the bystanders.  As they drove out of the yard, the Ridgeley quartette saw the pair saunter, side by side, to the extreme end of the portico, apparently to be out of hearing of the rest, but no one remarked aloud upon the renewed intimacy and then confidential attitude.

“If it is anything very startling, the old gossip will never keep it to herself,” Mr. Aylett congratulated himself, while his wife’s complexion paled gradually to bloodlessness, and Herbert sat back in his corner, sulky and dumb.  “And she is coming to us on Friday!”

CHAPTER XVIII.

Thunder in the air.