If at times Mr. Endacott seemed a little out of his milieu at Ballaston Hall that evening, Claire, on the other hand, was an instantaneous and gorgeous success. In the Jacobean banquetting hall where she sat at her host’s right hand, her fresh, girlish beauty, with its additional charm of a constant and piquant enthusiasm, seemed in exquisite contrast to her majestic but gloomy surroundings; the great, dimly lit room, the stately rows of oil paintings, the cumbersome but magnificent furniture, impressive not because of any intrinsic art of selection, but because it was true to its period and had grown old with the house. Sir Bertram, whose attentions to the other sex, apart from times of necessity, had become rarer with the years, was, before the evening was over, proving himself not only a courteous, but even a devoted host, and Henry, who voluntarily never addressed a woman at all, actually waited for opportunities to attempt conversation in his old-fashioned, Thackerayan, but courtly fashion. Gregory watched her success with complacent amusement, content with temporary effacement, and resigned himself to the entertainment of her uncle.

After dinner they entered upon a general and informal exploration of the house, of the great picture gallery with its shining oak floor and its circular carved balustrade, leading down to the hall below, the Victorian drawing-room, its colourings quaintly sweet by the light of the lamps, its perfume a fragrant mixture of lavender and potpourri, curiously reminiscent of brocaded gowns, hooped skirts and vinaigrettes. They looked into the powdering closet on their way out and lingered for a few minutes on the south terrace, from which stretched a moonlit panorama of Italian gardens with tall cypresses, broad walks leading down to the lake. Claire became almost silent. She and Gregory had drifted a little apart from the others.

“At least,” she murmured sympathetically, “I realise now how terrible the very thought of parting with your home must be.”

“It has been ours since 1380,” he told her. “Uncle Henry could tell you the exact date and the name and record of every Ballaston since. I can’t pretend that my memory is as good. I never had much head for detail, but we are all alike in our love for the place.”

“I know I am very ignorant,” she said, a little hesitatingly, “but your pictures—the Gainsboroughs and Corots and Romneys, and all those treasures too—surely they must be worth a great deal—a very great deal of money.”

“They are all heirlooms,” he explained, “just as the land is entailed. They belong to us as Ballastons only. We could not sell a single picture. I don’t know why I should tell you all this,” he went on, “except that just now and then you seem to think that I was only an ordinary fortune hunter. I wasn’t, you know, really. I went to China to try to get the money to keep us going. It may have been the wrong way, but it was the only way I was any good at. We haven’t the instincts, any of us, for making money by legitimate methods.”

“You should do like so many young Englishmen,” she suggested. “Come over to the States and marry one of our millionairesses.”

He made a little grimace.

“We all, even the worst of us, have our code,” he reflected. “Personally, I would sooner rob a man. Besides——”

She turned towards the open windows through which was an impression of the faded but stately drawing-room, fine davenports and costly china, with little pools of shaded light falling upon stretches of carpet delicately blue, though threadbare in places.

“I think we had better go inside,” she said, with sudden decision.

“Nevertheless,” he murmured, as he followed her, “there is a ‘besides’.”

They found the others in the smaller library, standing in a little semicircle round the Image of the Body. They had evidently only just arrived, for the door of the main apartment was open behind them and through it was a vista of liqueur glasses and coffee cups.

“You are an authority, I believe, Mr. Endacott, upon all matters connected with the East,” Sir Bertram remarked to his visitor.

Endacott nodded. He had adjusted his more formidable-looking spectacles, through which he was steadfastly regarding the Image.

“I think,” he admitted drily, “that I might be said to know more about Chinese art and Chinese objets d’art than any other man alive.”

“I gather from my son,” Sir Bertram continued, “that you are acquainted with the history of this particular Image.”

“Intimately,” was the somewhat sardonic reply. “The fellow statue to this one—the Soul—was acquired, after the desecration of the temple, by the firm with which I was connected in China. Their antiquity alone, apart from their history, makes these twin Images intensely interesting. They are reputed to have been the work of Yun-Tse, the priest after whom the temple was named, and to have been fashioned for the purpose of concealing the jewels and treasures of the temple in times of danger. I see no reason to doubt the truth of the story.”

“Amazing!” Sir Bertram murmured.

“Yun-Tse,” Endacott proceeded, “was the first apostle of Chinese arrestment. He preached the doctrine that China had advanced far enough along the great avenues of art and science and knowledge. He looked still farther ahead and he saw that material progress meant actual retrogression in feeling, in beauty, in genuine achievement. It was he who started the crusade against foreigners.”

“From an Æsthetic point of view,” Henry Ballaston ventured a little stiffly, “one can find little to admire in this very extraordinary piece of work.”

Endacott turned towards the speaker, his thin lips protruding.

“Only by contrast with its fellow,” he retorted sharply. “It was the wish of the sculptor, a wish which has been zealously kept through the centuries, that the two statues shall never be separated. Each is the complement of the other. Body and Soul commingled make one life. The artist dragged aside the component parts and separated them. Here in this one we have all that is gross and evil, unredeemed by any strain of virtue, and in the other statue there is charity and spirituality without a trace of the defiling qualities. They are parted now, perhaps for ever. I cannot say that I regard with equanimity the action of the person responsible for this deed of vandalism.”

There was a moment’s silence. Endacott’s voice was contemptuous, almost provocative. Gregory was on the point of speech, but Claire’s fingers suddenly pressed his arm.

“Your point of view, Mr. Endacott,” Sir Bertram admitted courteously, “is easily understood. Yet I am afraid that the spirit of loot has been rampant in Englishmen throughout history, else the British Empire could scarcely have existed. And speaking of loot,” he went on, “we come to the one really serious question concerning our possession here. Do you honestly believe that at the present moment it is as it stands the receptacle for a portion of the jewels of the temple?”

“I certainly do,” was the curt reply.

Again silence; a little tremor of excitement amongst the group. Sir Bertram laid his long, slim fingers upon the broad, shining edge of the Image.

“But, my dear sir,” he pointed out, “what possible place of concealment could there be in, say, this particular Image? Examine it as carefully as you will, you cannot find any sign of a join or aperture.”

“The Chinese have with justice been called magicians,” Endacott observed drily. “At least, when they hide they hide. If there had been, as you remark, any aperture or join to be seen, theirs would have been a clumsy device at the best.”

“If the jewels are there,” Sir Bertram reflected, “and we can find no other way, then the statue must be broken up.”

Endacott turned towards his host. His manner and expression were alike displeasing. The glance which flashed from behind his heavy spectacles was one of utter contempt.

“You carry vandalism beyond the conceivable limits of thought,” he declared. “The person who could destroy work such as that would deserve the fate which would probably befall him.”

“There are times,” Sir Bertram rejoined, “when necessity is compelling. Let us turn this from an abstract to a concrete discussion. My son risked his life to obtain this Image and the one which was unfortunately lost—risked it in the belief that it contained jewels of great value. Am I not right in saying, Mr. Endacott, that you could, if you would, assist us in the matter of obtaining those jewels?”

“I could,” Endacott replied quietly. “I have at the present moment a manuscript in my possession which I believe would solve the riddle.”

“You will not refuse your help then,” Sir Bertram persisted.

Endacott did not hesitate for a moment. His tone was acid, his manner brusque to the point of rudeness.

“I do most certainly and absolutely refuse,” he said. “To have removed the Images at all from their resting place was an unforgivable action. This spirit of loot you speak of presents itself to me as an act of common robbery. I refuse to countenance it. I refuse my help.”

There was a brief silence; awkward, yet in a sense dramatic. Henry Ballaston, who had been standing a little in the background, took a step forward, then paused. The parchment-like pallor of his face was almost ghastly. There were pin-pricks of fire in his cold, blue eyes. Nevertheless, he said nothing. Such words as had risen to his lips he repressed. Sir Bertram for a moment had looked frankly angry. He too, however, remained silent. Mr. Endacott turned his back upon the Image and strolled across towards the side-board.

“May I be privileged,” he asked, “to smoke one more of your excellent cigarettes? After which, I will beg you to excuse my niece and me. We have the habit of retiring early.”

Sir Bertram was at once the courteous host. The discussion was closed.

“I shall not attempt,” he said, “to do my few treasures the injustice of showing them by this light, but I hope, Mr. Endacott, that you will give me another opportunity of asking your opinion on them—you and your niece,” he added, turning with a smile to Claire. “You know we have quaint customs in England,” he went on. “We have laws by reason of which we become only the custodians of all our treasures. There are pictures here of great value and great beauty, and three generations of my family spent fortunes in collecting china.”

“I shall be very happy to see your collection,” Endacott assented. “I know little about pictures; something, perhaps, of china.”

“My brother Henry is our showman,” Sir Bertram observed. “He gives the whole of his time to the care of our treasures. By-the-by, my sister—Lady Annistair—will be here on Sunday afternoon. You will, perhaps, bring your niece to tea. It would be a good opportunity for a preliminary inspection.”

Endacott accepted without enthusiasm, but with a certain measured politeness, which was as far as he ever progressed towards geniality. Gregory escorted the departing guests to the already wide-flung hall door. Claire made a little grimace at him, as they dropped behind for a moment.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “Perhaps he’ll change his mind.”

“In any case,” he answered softly, “thank you for being sorry.”

He walked out with them into the scented twilight and Claire waved him another little farewell as they rolled off in the hired car. When he returned to the library he found his father and his uncle both standing before the Image. They turned at the sound of his approaching footsteps. There was something a little suggestive in their unnatural silence.

“Pleasant fellow, your friend Endacott!” the former remarked easily.

“It is much to be hoped,” Henry Ballaston said, in a low tone, “that he will not persist in his present most unreasonable attitude.”