it backwards and forwards. "I like it the best of them all myself."
Célestine stood up and put out her hand. "One moment, monsieur. Yes," turning to the ivory sticks, "it is the very same. It is indeed Miladi's fan that she lose—it is marvellous—extraordinaire! How did you come by it, monsieur?"
Lennox looked at her in apparent amazement. "It was brought to me by a dealer, a man who knows I am always on the look-out for such things. But about it being Lady Carew's—I can't believe that, mademoiselle. You must have made a mistake."
"I have not," Célestine affirmed positively. "See you here, monsieur, there are the Queen Marie Antoinette's initials, in diamonds, do you see? And there beneath is a tiny diamond bee, which is of the most recent. Sir Anthony, he had that put there to show it is my lady's."
Mr. Lennox stared at the bee in the most obvious astonishment. "Are you sure, mademoiselle? That bee—but it is a most marvellous coincidence!"
"Most marvellous, monsieur!" Célestine agreed, twisting the fan about. "And yet I suppose it is not so, for if it were stolen the thief would take it to a dealer. I expect Miladi would give a good deal to get her fan back, monsieur."
"She must not get it back," Lennox returned with real alarm. "It is the gem of my collection, I would not part with it for untold gold. See you, mademoiselle, there is no need for you to say a word about it—it is just an accident that you recognized it. Promise me that you will not mention it."
Célestine revolved the situation rapidly in her own mind. After all it was as Mr. Lennox had said—it was pure accident that she had recognized the fan. Lady Carew was already reconciled to its loss. Moreover, the probability was that if she spoke of her discovery she would offend Lennox and destroy those golden châteaux en Espagne that she had been so busy building of late.
Her mind was made up; she flashed a captivating glance at Lennox, who was watching her, with more anxiety than seemed quite necessary.
"Very well, monsieur, I cannot say you no, it shall be as you wish. It shall be our little secret—yours and mine."
Lennox's smile and quick look of relief repaid her; he took out one of the fans not yet unfastened and handed it to her.
"If you will honour me by accepting it, mademoiselle."
Célestine gave a gasp of delight as she unfolded it and noted the exquisite carving of the ivory, the beautiful old lace.
"But you are too good, monsieur; it is too exquisite, too lovely for me."
"I don't think so!" Lennox said bluntly, laying the Marie Antoinette fan back in the box.
The church clock chimed the hour. He looked up. "How the time has flown, to be sure!"
Célestine started in dismay. "And I—miladi will be wanting me. You must be a magician, monsieur; you make me forget everything." She rose quickly.
Lennox fastened up his box and took it back to the house, then he caught up the maid before she reached the gate.
They walked back to the wood together, Célestine keeping up a voluble conversation in her broken English, Lennox for the most part listening with a smile that showed him to be well satisfied with his companion.
When they had parted, and he turned back, he found himself confronted by a tall broad-shouldered figure that seemed to rise up suddenly behind. A deep voice said:
"Well, inspector."
"Lennox, if you please, Mr. Crasster, sir." He glanced round. "One never knows who may be within hearing."
"Lady Carew's French maid, for example," Stephen said deliberately. "What do you imagine Mrs.—er—Lennox would say if she could see you now, my good friend?"
Mr. Lennox laughed sheepishly as he drew his beard through his fingers. "She has had to get used to it, sir, in the way of—"
"In the way of business," Crasster finished. "But surely that can't lead to Lady Carew's maid?"
Lennox coughed. "Not directly, sir; I can't say it does. But—well, it is a matter I should like to consult you about if you could spare me a few minutes, say, to-morrow or the next day."
Chapter XVIII
"How awfully good of you to come!" Lady Palmer went forward with outstretched hands. "I hardly dared to expect you, and yet there was no one else I could appeal to, and I stood so sorely in need of help. What is a poor little woman like me to do with all the lawyers against one?"
Sir Anthony Carew took her hands in some embarrassment. "Ah, well, you know, Sybil, that anything I can do to help you—"
"You are always more than kind," Lady Palmer said gratefully as she sank into one of the big easy chairs by the window, and motioned him to the other.
She had left the Wiltons rather suddenly in the end, summoned up to town to a conference with her lawyers, and, since interviews seemed inevitable, she had decided to take a suite of rooms at the Imperial Hotel for a week or two until matters were more settled. An urgent appeal from her for personal help had coincided with a growing restlessness on Sir Anthony's part, and he had hurried up to town for a week-end, on the pretext of giving her counsel.
As he sat there, however, his thoughts were not with Lady Palmer, and the thousand and one airs and graces she was assuming for his benefit, they were back at Heron's Carew with Judith.
He could not but be aware that, as far as anything she had yet related, there seemed but scant need for Sybil to have summoned him to London, but she spoke as if an interview with her lawyer were imperative.
He had been there perhaps half an hour when the door of the outer room sprang open, and voices became audible outside. Lady Palmer sprang to her feet.
"I told them that I was not at home, that I could not see anyone. Oh"—after listening a moment—"I had quite forgotten. It is Charlotte. She did speak of coming in, and I did not stop her, for I knew it would be such a pleasure to her to see you again. And, really, she has such a head for business—so unlike poor little me."
Surely never two sisters were more unlike, Mrs. Dawson was tall, sinuous-looking, with a complexion so dark as to suggest a mixture of foreign blood, and curious light eyes that contrasted oddly with her black hair and swarthy skin.
She came into the room now with her graceful languid air, and to Sir Anthony's annoyance he saw that she was followed by another visitor, a middle-aged woman with a pleasant rosy face, which somehow gave him a strange sense of familiarity.
Mrs. Dawson kissed her sister affectionately. "I have only a few minutes to spare, Sybil, for I am on my way to a meeting at the St. Clery Nertells'. Mrs. Rankin is going with me, so I brought her in. You remember her, don't you? But who is this?" gazing at Sir Anthony with wide-open eyes. "Not—surely not—Anthony Carew?"
"Am I so much altered?" Carew asked, smiling in spite of himself. "I should have known you anywhere, Charlotte."
"Well, I don't know," Mrs. Dawson replied, sitting down and looking at him. "You are older of course, we all are," with an affected little laugh. "But you look troubled, worried—your very eyes are altered—anxious."
"An active imagination," Sir Anthony laughed. "What should I have to worry me?"
"Indeed, I don't know," Mrs. Dawson answered with a little sigh, as if giving up the subject. "You have everything a man can have, it seems to me—a beautiful home, a large income, a lovely wife. Oh, how strange that you should be here to-day, and that I should happen to bring Mrs. Rankin in."
"Why strange?" Sir Anthony inquired in his leisurely fashion.
Mrs. Dawson looked a little embarrassed.
"Oh, it is only that Mrs. Rankin is an old friend of your wife's. But perhaps I ought not to