her pretty eyes as of a lifted burden, and a new friendship with life, which persons in Philip Buntingford’s neighbourhood, when they belonged to the race of the meek and gentle, were apt to put on.  Peter Dale hung about her, distributing tea and cake, and obedient to all her wishes.  More than once in these later weeks he had found, in the dumb sympathy and understanding of the little widow, something that had been to him like shadow in the desert.  He was known to fame as one of the smartest young aide-de-camps in the army, and fabulously rich besides.  His invitation cards, carelessly stacked in his Curzon Street rooms, were a sight to see.  But Helena had crushed his manly spirit.  Sitting under the shadow of Mrs. Friend, he liked to watch from a distance the beautiful and dazzling creature who would have none of him.  He was very sorry for himself; but, all the same, he had had some rattling games of tennis; the weather was divine, and he could still gaze at Helena; so that although the world was evil, “the thrushes still sang in it.”

Buntingford and Geoffrey were seen walking up from the lake when tea was nearly over.

All eyes were turned to them.

“Now, then,” said Julian Horne—­“for the mystery, and its key.  What a pity mysteries are generally such frauds!  They can’t keep it up.  They let you down when you least expect it.”

“Well, what news?” cried Helena, as the two men approached.  Buntingford shook his head.

“Not much to tell—­very little, indeed.”

It appeared to Horne that both men looked puzzled and vaguely excited.  But their story was soon told.  They had seen Richard Stimson, a labourer, who reported having noticed a strange lady crossing the park in the direction of the wood, which, however, she had not entered, having finally changed her course so as to bear towards the Western Lodge and the allotments.

“That, you will observe, was about ten o’clock,” interjected French, “and I saw my lady about eight.”  Buntingford found a chair, lit a cigarette, and resumed: 

“She appeared in the village some time yesterday morning and went into the church.  She told the woman who was cleaning there that she had come to look at an old window which was mentioned in her guide-book.  The woman noticed that she stayed some time looking at the monuments in the church, and the tombs in the Buntingford chantry, which all the visitors go to see.  She ordered some sandwiches at the Rose-and-Crown and got into talk with the landlord.  He says she asked the questions strangers generally do ask—­’Who lived in the neighbourhood?’—­If she took a lodging in the village for August were there many nice places to go and see?—­and so on.  She said she had visited the Buntingford tombs in the chantry, and asked some questions about the family, and myself—­Was I married?—­Who was the heir? etc.  Then when she had paid her bill, she enquired the way across the park to Feetham Station, and said she would have a walk and catch a six o’clock train back to London.  She loved the country, she said—­and liked walking.  And that really is—­all!”