Braxfield, who, from his retired position in the background was watching Guy Markenmore with inquisitive eyes, saw him start a little at Valencia’s direct intimation. The start was followed by a laugh which was not exactly spontaneous.

“Well?” said Guy. “What about the ring? It’s—simply a ring.”

“Just so—a ring,” remarked Valencia. “But—a peculiar one. And I know somebody who has one that’s a precise duplicate of it.”

“Who?” asked Guy.

“Mrs. Tretheroe,” replied Valencia. “She always wears it. I thought it was some ring she’d picked up in India. But—yours is just the same. Odd!—that you should both have rings which are exactly alike.”

“So Mrs. Tretheroe comes here?” suggested Guy.

“Of course! Didn’t we all know her before she was married,” answered Valencia. “So far as I remember, you and she used to go about together a good deal.”

Guy yawned, but it seemed to his sister that the yawn was affected.

“Forgotten pretty nearly everything about those days!” he said, with an attempt at unconcern. “Long time ago—and I’ve been otherwise engaged since I left here.”

Valencia turned and looked at Braxfield.

“See if anything’s being wanted upstairs, Braxfield,” she said, with a meaning glance. “You might sit with Sir Anthony a bit—make some excuse if he wants either of us.”

Braxfield took the hint and disappeared, and Valencia turned to her brother.

“Guy,” she said, calling him by name for the first time, “I’m sorry if I seemed to be ungracious just now. But—but you haven’t treated us well, nor kindly. And I want to know why you’ve never been here, all this time—and why you ever left here at all. Can’t you tell me?”

There was a certain earnestness in the girl’s tone that made Guy, inclined to be restive at first under her questioning, change his mood and become reflective. He threw away his cigar, rose from his chair, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, began to pace the room, evidently in deep thought.

“I might tell you some day,” he said at last. “Perhaps—later on—after thinking it over, I will.”

“That’s the second time tonight I’ve had that answer to that very question!” exclaimed Valencia. “In practically the same words!”

Guy stopped short in his perambulations and stared at her.

“Whose answer was the first?” he asked abruptly.

“Harborough’s,” replied Valencia. “He, too, has come back. He was here this evening. I knew that you and he were friends, once. I asked him if he knew why you left home. He answered—just what you’ve answered.”

“Well?” asked Guy, with something very like a growl. “Well?”

“I suppose he does know,” said Valencia.

Guy began to walk about again. He had taken several turns before he spoke.

“I’ll give you a piece of advice about John Harborough,” he said at last. “He’s a man—if certain conditions arise—of a black and fierce temper. You be careful. Otherwise——”

“What?” demanded Valencia.

“Otherwise I’ve nothing to say against him,” concluded Guy. “And now—that’s enough! I didn’t come here to be questioned. I’ve told you and Harry why I came, and I mean to do well and fairly by both of you on the lines I’ve suggested. Never you mind why I left Markenmore, nor why I stayed away!”

“I wish you’d tell me just one thing, though,” persisted Valencia. “Had it anything to do with Veronica Leighton, as she was then?—Mrs. Tretheroe?”

“I’m not going to tell you anything,” answered Guy peremptorily. “It’s nothing to do with you nor with anybody, now. I started out on a line of my own when I left here, and I’ve done with this. I shall never come near the place again when I leave it tonight; henceforth it’s yours and Harry’s. When I come back from America, you can both come and see me in London, whenever and as often as you like. But Markenmore will see me no more—I hate it!”

“Your father?” suggested Valencia.

Guy, still pacing the room, shook his head.

“You were too young to realize things,” he answered. “But my father and I never got on—from the first we never got on. He never treated me well, and it was worse after he married your mother. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d have run away from this when I was a boy. But your mother was a good sort—she did treat me well, right up to the time she died, when you and Harry were children. It’s because I remember her and her kindness that I’m going to make Markenmore over to you now.”

“Thank you!” said Valencia. “We’ll remember. But Guy—your father’s at the end of things. Won’t you see him?”

“No!” answered Guy sharply. “No! I’m dead to him—and what’s the good of upsetting a dying man? Let things be, Valencia—as I said just now, perhaps you’ll know more and understand more, later on. At present——”

The door opened just then, and Harry came back into the room. In his right hand he carried a lighted candle; in the left, the pocket-book, an old-fashioned thing of faded green leather, for which his brother had sent him. With a muttered word of thanks Guy took both pocket-book and candle from him, and crossing the room to its furthest side set down the candle on an oak press, and by its light proceeded to examine the pocket-book, while Harry and Valencia watched him. The examination was brief: Guy, after a quick glance at some of the papers which he drew from the old case, transferred certain of them to a wallet which he produced from a hip-pocket; this done he put wallet and pocket-book together and placed them where the wallet had come from. He blew out the candle and turned to his brother and sister.

“Some old papers there that I wanted,” he said unconcernedly. “Nothing of any importance, but I wanted to have them.” He sat down again and lighted another cigar. “Now,” he went on, “as I haven’t much time, just let us talk business. Tell me, Harry, exactly how things stand about the estate: what you’re doing with it, and so on.”

During the next half-hour, Valencia, listened to the two men as they discussed matters of rent, repairs, income, outgoings, realized that whatever else Guy might be, he was a shrewd business man; she realized, too, that he was honestly anxious to give Harry sound advice as to his future management of the Markenmore properties. Finally, he pulled out and handed to his younger brother a card.

“There’s my business address in London,” he said, “and on the other side is an address in New York, to which you can write at any time during the next twelve months. Let me know how things go—everything. And now, I must be off.”

He jumped to his feet and made for his hat and overcoat. Valencia glanced at the clock.

“But why must you go now?” she asked. “You say you’re going to get the early morning train at Mitbourne? That doesn’t leave till after four o’clock. And it’s now only half-past ten.”

Guy had already got into his overcoat. He smiled at Valencia’s questioning look.

“Just so!” he answered. “But there’s somebody else in this neighbourhood that I’ve got to see—on business. Appointment, you understand?—already made. I must be off, or I shall be late for it.”

“But—you ought to have had some supper—or something,” protested Valencia.

“That’ll be ready where I’m going,” replied Guy. “There—don’t bother yourselves! Call Braxfield down—good old chap, that, and I must say good-bye to him.”

Five minutes later he had said good-bye to all three, and Braxfield had let him out by the door at which he had entered. The old butler went back to his pantry to find his young mistress standing by the fire, evidently in deep thought. She looked up as he entered.

“Braxfield,” she said, “which way did Mr. Guy go?”

“Towards the village, miss,” replied Braxfield. “Turned through the shrubbery.”

Braxfield was the sort of man to whom everybody is confidential. Valencia saw no reason for keeping back what was in her mind.

“He said he had a business appointment with somebody in the neighbourhood,” continued Valencia. “With whom could it be, Braxfield?”

“That I couldn’t say, miss,” answered the old butler. “But Mr. Guy—he knew a lot of people hereabouts—in the old days.”

“But at this time of night?” said Valencia. “Besides, who is there, anywhere about here? I mean, anybody he’d be likely to want to see? There are only two or three farmers—and the Vicar.”

“He did mention the Sceptre Inn to me, miss,” observed Braxfield, “in a way that made me wonder if he’d some idea of calling there. But——”

The light tinkle of a bell, very gently pulled, interrupted Braxfield at the beginning of whatever suggestion he was going to offer. At its sound he and Valencia stared and looked at each other.

“He must be back again!” exclaimed Valencia.

“No, miss,” said Braxfield; “Mr. Guy would come to the garden entrance—always his way, that. This is our front door bell.”

He picked up an old-fashioned lantern as he spoke, lighted the candle with it, and went out. Valencia followed him. The corridor and the big hall were in darkness; the turning of the key and withdrawing of the bolts made a harsh, grating sound in the silence that had long since fallen on the old house. And when Braxfield opened the door, the night outside showed black, and there, on the steps beneath the portico, they saw in the light of the lantern, cloaked and veiled, a woman. But in spite of the wraps, Valencia knew who the visitor was.

“Mrs. Tretheroe!” she exclaimed.

Mrs. Tretheroe answered with a low, half-excited, half-nervous laugh. She stepped inside, passed Braxfield, laid a hand on Valencia’s arm, and pushed her gently towards the end of the hall, where a faint gleam of light penetrated from the open door of Braxfield’s pantry.

“Hush!” she whispered. “I want a word with you, Valencia. Tell the butler to wait there—I’m going again in a minute.”

“Stay there, Braxfield,” said Valencia. “Mrs. Tretheroe’ll want letting out presently. Come along here,” she continued, going towards the lighted room. “What is it?”

Mrs. Tretheroe followed the girl inside the pantry, half closed the door, and threw back her veil and her heavy cloak. In spite of her wonder, Valencia could not avoid staring at her in admiration. Mrs. Tretheroe was in her finest feathers, a wonderful dinner-gown, the like of which Valencia had never seen; diamonds were in her chestnut-hued hair and at her white throat; her violet eyes were alive with excitement; her scarlet lips were slightly parted; Valencia realized that this was a much more beautiful woman than she had previously thought her to be. And for the first time she began to realize, too, that she was a dangerous one.

The violet eyes looked sharply round the room before settling on the girl’s face. There was a question in them—her lips repeated it.

“Your brother—Guy? Is he here?”

“No!” answered Valencia. “He’s not!”

Mrs. Tretheroe’s fine eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown.

“But—my coachman, Burton, tells me that he saw him, this evening, coming here?” she said half-petulantly. “He must be here!”

“He isn’t,” retorted Valencia. “He’s been here—and he’s gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“I don’t know,” said Valencia. “What do you want?”

Mrs. Tretheroe laughed, and as she laughed she drew her cloak and veil about her.

“I wanted to see him again, to be sure,” she answered defiantly. “Why not? However, I suppose he’ll come to see me tomorrow.”

“No!” declared Valencia. “He’s gone. Back to London.”

“There’s no train to London at this time of night, child,” said Mrs. Tretheroe. She laughed a little maliciously. Then the note in her voice turned to one of sudden knowingness. “Ah!” she exclaimed. “I see!—no doubt he’s gone to call on me, now! I’ve missed him. Bye-bye, Valencia; sorry I have disturbed you.”

She was out of the room and flying up the corridor and across the hall before Valencia could reply; a moment later the front door closed on her. Braxfield came back.

“Is there anything I can do upstairs, miss?” he asked. “The nurse, now?—is there anything she’ll be requiring for the night?”

“I don’t know of anything, Braxfield, thank you,” said Valencia. She was leaving the room then, but suddenly she paused, hesitated, and turned back to the old butler. “Braxfield,” she continued, with a look of confidence, “you’ve been in our family a long time, haven’t you?”

“Most of my life, miss,” replied Braxfield. “Footman, ten; butler, thirty years.”

“And you know a lot of our affairs,” said Valencia. “And no doubt more than I’ve any idea of. So—I wish you’d tell me something. Was there ever any love affair between my brother Guy and Mrs. Tretheroe—when she was Miss Leighton? I want to know, Braxfield.”

Braxfield, in his turn, hesitated. He laughed, a little nervously—the laugh, too, of a man disposed to be indulgent towards memories of old days.

“Well, you know, miss, of course a man in my position sees and hears a good deal,” he said at last. “Miss Leighton, as she was then—Mrs. Tretheroe, as she is now—was a great beauty, and, to be sure, a good deal run after. There was talk about her and Mr. Guy—they were about together, hunting, racing, and what not. But then—there were others after her.”

“What others?” demanded Valencia.

“Well, miss, there was Mr. Harborough—that was here tonight,” continued Braxfield. “He seemed very much taken at one time—you were away at your school in those days, miss, or you’d recollect. Yes, there was him—in fact, people used to wonder which it was going to be—Mr. Guy or Mr. Harborough. There were others—several of ’em—but those two were what you might call first and second favourites, to all appearance.”

“Then why didn’t she marry one of them?” asked Valencia. “Do you know, Braxfield?”

“I don’t, miss—no, I know nothing on that point. All I do know is that all of a sudden, without notice, as it were, both young gentlemen left these parts. Mr. Guy, he went off—very sudden, indeed—and we’ve heard nothing of him till now. Then Mr. John Harborough, off he went too—travelling in foreign countries. And they hadn’t been gone long—not a fortnight, I think—before it was given out that Miss Leighton was going to be married to Colonel Tretheroe. He was in command of his regiment, miss, at Selcaster Barracks. I mind him well enough: a red-faced gentleman.”

“Older than herself?” asked Valencia.

“Old enough to be her father, miss. But a very wealthy gentleman. They were married here in our church, soon after that, and a bit later the regiment was ordered out to India, and, of course, she went with her husband. Queer, isn’t it, miss,” continued Braxfield, with a shy glance at his young mistress, “that these people which knew each other well in the old days, Mrs. Tretheroe and the two gentlemen, Mr. Guy and Mr. Harborough, should all turn up again—here—about the same time? What they call coincidence—though, to be sure, Mrs. Tretheroe’s been back a month or so. But those other two—both coming here tonight—it gave me quite a turn.”

“I suppose it was mere coincidence,” said Valencia.

She bade the old man good night and went away upstairs. At the door of her father’s room she met Harry. Sir Anthony, he said, had fallen on a light sleep; the nurse was with him, and there was nothing they could do. They turned off to their own rooms.

“Who came to the front door?” whispered Harry as they went along the corridor.

“Mrs. Tretheroe,” answered Valencia.

“Mrs. Tretheroe! At this time? What did she want?”

“Guy!”

“Guy? Who told her he was here?”

“Her coachman had seen him coming here.”

“Well?” asked Harry, after a pause. “What then?”

“I told her he’d gone. She went, then. Went in a hurry, too. Harry!”

“What?”

“It strikes me there’s something going on underneath these sudden reappearances. I don’t know what—but something. Mrs. Tretheroe was just mad to see Guy! And—I don’t trust her. She’s—oh, I don’t know what she is! Never mind—let’s go to bed.”

Valencia went to bed, but it was a long time before she slept, and when at last she did sleep, her slumbers were light and troubled. She woke suddenly in the end—the grey dawn was breaking, and through her open windows she heard the hooting of owls—ominous and fearsome sound—in the woods beyond the park. Something impelled her to rise, throw up her blinds, and look out of the window. Her room faced the east; far away across the park and the low range of hills beyond the fringe of old woodland that enclosed it, a broad belt of red was slowly widening. And already thrush and blackbird were piping in the coverts, and a lark was rising from the home meadow.

Somewhere in the neighbouring plantations a shot suddenly rang out: its echoes sounded loud from the thick woods. Valencia was wondering what took their one gamekeeper abroad so early when a tap came at her door; the door opened, and Harry looked in. One glance at his face told her his news. She went hurriedly towards him, a question in her eyes. Harry bent his head in answer.

“In his sleep,” he whispered.

CHAPTER IV