“You’re in trouble!” she whispered in his ear.  “All the same, I approve.  I like Stephanie, but she is an exceedingly dangerous person.”

“I wonder whether she is,” Dominey mused.

“I think men have generally found her so,” Caroline replied.  “She had one wonderful love affair, which ended, as you know, in her husband being killed in a duel and her lover being banished from the country.  Still, she’s not quite the sort of woman to be content with a banished lover.  I fancied I noticed distinct signs of her being willing to replace him whilst she has been down here!”

“I feel as though a blight had settled upon my house party,” Dominey remarked with bland irrelevancy.  “First Eddy, then Mr. Ludwig Miller, and now Stephanie.”

“And who on earth was Mr. Ludwig Miller, after all?” Caroline enquired.

“He was a fat, flaxen-haired German who brought me messages from old friends in Africa.  He had no luggage but a walking stick, and he seems to have upset the male part of my domestics last night by accepting a bed and then disappearing!”

“With the plate?”

“Not a thing missing.  Parkins spent an agonised half hour, counting everything.  Mr. Ludwig appears to be one of those unsolved mysteries which go to make up an imperfect world.”

“Well, we’ve had a jolly time,” Caroline said reminiscently.  “To-morrow Henry and I are off, and I suppose the others.  I must say on the whole I am delighted with our visit.”

“You are very gracious,” Dominey murmured.

“I came, perhaps, expecting to see a little more of you,” she went on deliberately, “but there is a very great compensation for my disappointment.  I think your wife, Everard, is worth taking trouble about.  She is perfectly sweet, and her manners are most attractive.”

“I am very glad you think that,” he said warmly.

She looked away from him.

“Everard,” she sighed, “I believe you are in love with your wife.”

There was a strange, almost a terrible mixture of expressions in his face as he answered,—­a certain fear, a certain fondness, a certain almost desperate resignation.  Even his voice, as a rule so slow and measured, shook with an emotion which amazed his companion.

“I believe I am,” he muttered.  “I am afraid of my feelings for her.  It may bring even another tragedy down upon us.”

“Don’t talk rubbish!” Caroline exclaimed.  “What tragedy could come between you now?  You’ve recovered your balance.  You are a strong, steadfast person, just fitted to be the protector of anything so sweet and charming as Rosamund.  Tragedy, indeed!  Why don’t you take her down to the South of France, Everard, and have your honeymoon all over again?”

“I can’t do that just yet.”

She studied him curiously.  There were times when he seemed wholly incomprehensible to her.

“Are you still worried about that Unthank affair?” she asked.