the general was getting talkative, for the wine was unusually good, having been sent down from Heron's Carew cellars. The general's voice grew louder. "He came over to sketch my bit of place, but I refused him permission—told him I didn't want any of his sort round me; I could hardly get rid of the beggar. He had been to Talgarth, he told me, and Heron's Carew."
"Talgarth," Stephen Crasster repeated. "Who are you speaking of, general?"
"That fellow that has been staying at the Carew Arms," the general repeated. There was a lull in the conversation round, his voice sounded unusually loud. "Barker, he called himself, and gave out that he was an artist. Been round everywhere; wanting to make sketches. But he did not take me in; the fellow is no more an artist than I am."
"Not an artist?" Sir Anthony leaned forward. "I think you must be mistaken, general. He took several sketches round Heron's Carew."
"Did he really?" The general laughed until his mirth threatened to become apoplectic. "Don't know whether you will be so flattered by his attentions, Carew, when you hear what he is; he is a private detective."
"A detective!" Stephen Crasster looked up quickly. A momentary sight of Lady Carew's face caught his attention. It was not only that it had turned absolutely white, but that it had a look of unmistakable fear. Forgetful, he stared at her in surprise.
Chesterham leaned over the table; for one instant Crasster fancied he intercepted a glance of warning, the next he told himself that he must be mistaken. Chesterham was speaking lightly.
"You remember the aquamarines you were speaking of the other day, Lady Carew; I have been fortunate enough to pick up some wonderful specimens. Peggy must show them to you after dinner."
"I must ask her."
Judith's eyes met his for a moment. Then she pulled herself together and turned to her right-hand neighbour with an easy question. Stephen told himself that of course he was mistaken.
For Judith, smiling and talking as she compelled herself to do, it was veritably a time of torture, a nightmare from which she rose with relief at her mother-in-law's signal. But in the drawing-room she endured a perfect torment of anxiety. What had the general meant about the detective who was staying at the Carew Arms? If a detective was staying in Carew Village, what was his business in the neighbourhood? Was it—could it possibly be connected with the flat murder? Judith's cheeks blanched anew as she asked herself the question.
Her mother-in-law drew her on to a great roomy couch. "The child is so happy now that Anthony has given way," her eyes growing wistful as she looked at her pretty, tall girl. "And it is nice to think she will be settled near me."
"Yes!" Judith said slowly. She shuddered to think of Peggy as Chesterham's wife, in Chesterham's power, yet with a terrible cowardice she shrank from the only course that could save Peggy.
Lady Palmer crossed the room to them with her graceful, undulating step. "May I make a third on your delightful couch, Aunt Geraldine?" she asked the dowager with her melancholy smile.
The Dowager Lady Carew did not look quite pleased as she made room for her. She had never altogether understood Sybil, or forgiven her her share in the past wrecking of Anthony's life.
Little as Judith cared for Lady Palmer, she was inclined to welcome the interruption. It seemed to her that anything was better than sitting there tête-à-tête with her mother-in-law, discussing Peggy's engagement, Peggy's prospects of happiness.
Lady Palmer began by offering profuse congratulations; then, gliding gracefully from the subject of the engagement, she turned to Judith. "It is such a pleasure to see you so fully recovered tonight, dear Judith; we were all so anxious about you on the day of the show."
"You are very kind." There was a faint touch of amusement in Judith's eyes as she glanced at the speaker.
"One poor little girl was frightfully disappointed," Lady Palmer went on sweetly. "She had been looking forward to seeing you so much, an old friend of yours. I consoled her as well as I could, but I am afraid she found me a very inefficient substitute for you."
Judith drew her level brows together in a puzzled fashion. "An old friend of mine? How unfortunate I should have missed her. But you are a little vague, aren't you, Sybil? You haven't told me her name."
"Her name was Miss Sophie Rankin!"
A soft little breath escaped from Judith. "Sophie Rankin. Ah! You mean my old pupil. How extraordinary that she should be at Wembley Show. And how sorry I am that I missed her. I used to be very fond of Sophie."
In spite of the fact that her tone was one of ordinary polite interest, that she met Lady Palmer's gaze smilingly, the latter had an instinct that in some way she was nearing that secret of the past that she had set herself to discover.
As she paused before speaking again she could see that, as Judith waited, an expression of being on guard settled on her face, that her smile was purely mechanical.
"Poor little girl! She seemed to have quite a romantic attachment to you," Lady Palmer proceeded in soft purring tones. "And I fancy you have ill requited it, Judith dear. She complained that you had never written to her since your marriage."
"Since my marriage. Oh, surely Sophie exaggerates," Judith said quietly, her eyes turning to the door as the voices of the men became audible outside.
With the entrance of the men Lady Palmer's opportunity of questioning Judith had for the moment departed.
She turned to her cousin with a smile as he sat down near her. Nor did she manage to get near Judith again that evening. Sir Anthony was determined to leave early, making his wife's recent indisposition the excuse, nor was Judith by any means loath.
In the earlier happier days of their married life, it had been the Carew's custom to walk up to Heron's Carew from the Dower House, but of late both had dreaded the lengthy tête-à-tête it would have involved. To-night, by some mistake, the carriage instead of the motor came for them. Sir Anthony frowned as he saw it; he objected to his horses being brought out at night. Yet as he took his seat beside his wife, as he felt her nearness in every pulse of his being, as the faint undefinable scent from the flowers she wore was wafted to him, he could have found it in his heart to bless the mistake that had prolonged their drive together.
He glanced sideways at Judith; in the bright summer moonlight it was possible to watch her face almost as closely as in the daytime. He could see the pure pale profile, the droop of her eyelids, the exquisite curved lips that were quivering ever so slightly.
Some subtle sense told Judith that he was moved. She turned her face towards him, her breath quickened, she swayed nearer, her ungloved hand touched his. Her husband's arms closed round her like a vice. "Judith!" he murmured, "Judith, my wife!"
Judith did not speak; she rested motionless, silent in his clasp. By-and-bye two big tears forced their way through her closed lids, and trickled slowly down her cheeks. It was rapture to her, after their long sad estrangement, to be once more in her husband's arms, to know that for the time being, at all events, all that had divided them was forgotten and forgiven.
But all too soon, like most of the perfect things of earth, the drive was over, the carriage stopped at the door of Heron's Carew. As Anthony helped his wife out she saw that his face was very pale, that there were dark rings round his eyes. He drew her into the morning-room and closed the door, then standing on the great white bear skin before the fire-place, he took her hands in his. "Judith! Judith!" he questioned, his strong voice breaking in a note of appeal. "You are mine; you care for me."
Judith's soft fingers held him tightly, her strange, beautiful eyes met his. "You—you know, Anthony;" she murmured. "I love you."
Sir Anthony drew her to his breast.
Judith looked up at him, she touched his cheek with her hand. "You are ill, Anthony! You are shivering, and yet your hands and face are burning."
Sir Anthony's clasp loosened a little. "I am all right, child, but I am worried. I wish I knew what to do for the best; this engagement of Peggy's is all wrong like