The afternoon was still young when Mr. Johnson passed through the park gates of Ballaston Hall and drove slowly down the village street on his way back to the Great House. He studied the sign-post which marked the road to Norwich and hesitated. At that moment a young woman stepped out of the grocer’s shop and, recognising him, nodded in spiritless fashion. Mr. Johnson fancied that he caught an almost wistful expression as she glanced critically at his car. He drew up by the side of the cobbled pavement.

“Good afternoon, Miss Besant,” he said.

“Good afternoon,” she rejoined, looking up as though surprised.

“I thought of motoring in to Norwich,” he confided. “I wonder whether you would care to come? It will take three quarters of an hour to an hour and I need not stay there for many minutes.”

“It sounds delightful,” she admitted, “but I am afraid that it is quite impossible. Madame is very restless to-day and I am quite sure that she would not allow it.”

“You might ask her,” he suggested.

She hesitated.

“I might,” she agreed doubtfully, “but I am afraid it would be scarcely worth while asking you to wait.”

“Nonsense. I have nothing to do,” he replied cheerfully. “Jump in and I’ll drive you to the gate.”

“I’d rather you waited at the corner,” she begged. “I’ll come back and tell you, anyway.”

Mr. Johnson obeyed instructions. He drew up at the point where a by-road curved around to his own and the Little House and on to a chain of rather remote villages, descended and glanced into his petrol tank, lit a cigarette and settled down to wait. In a few minutes Miss Besant reappeared. He was conscious of a measure of disappointment which rather puzzled him when he saw that she was still without gloves or coat. Nevertheless there was a slightly eager expression in her face.

“Madame has surprised me very much,” she announced, as she paused by the side of the car. “She seems willing for me to go, but she would like to speak to you first.”

“Delighted,” Mr. Johnson replied, preparing to alight. “I proposed myself as a visitor yesterday, as you may remember.”

The young woman nodded.

“For some reason or another,” she confided, “Madame is very curious about you. Directly I mentioned your name and said that you were outside, she told me to fetch you in. Please be careful what you say to her. She is very peculiar and every one humours her. Whilst you are talking I shall get my coat and gloves.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised her, as he held open the gate. “Don’t keep me too long. I can foresee that conversation with Madame will be difficult. I hope she knows that I have lived abroad for a long time and am unused to ladies’ society.”

“You’ll manage all right,” she assured him encouragingly.

She opened the front door and led him across the low, almost square hall, oak-panelled to the ceiling and with several strange and, to Mr. Johnson’s taste, not yet educated to futurism, extremely bizarre pictures upon the wall. Then she opened another door softly and beckoned him to follow her.

“This is Mr. Johnson who has come to live at the Great House, Madame,” she announced.

She left him then, and Mr. Johnson crossed the room towards the couch. His curiosity concerning Madame rather increased as he bent down to take her unexpectedly beautiful hand. She was lying flat on her back in a sort of invalid chair, which was drawn up, as usual, to an open window, and from her waist downwards she was covered by a beautiful Chinese wrap of light texture. He was astonished by the lack of wrinkles in her face, the clearness of its complexion, the absence of any sign of illness. A lace scarf around her neck was fastened by an exquisite pin with ancient paste gems, and the fingers of the hand which still remained in his seemed ablaze with jewels, all of them with old-fashioned settings, which contained, however, some really fine gems.

“So you are my new neighbour,” she remarked abruptly.

Her voice gave Mr. Johnson further cause for surprise. It was very low and very musical, but it possessed other qualities which he found it difficult to define.

“I have come to live at the Great House for a time,” he replied.

“Why have you come here?” she demanded.

He accepted the chair to which she had pointed imperiously.

“It is a most extraordinary thing,” he said, “but every person I have met since I came here has asked me the same question. Why should I not choose to come and live a quiet life in Market Ballaston? The place pleased me. I wished to live in the country—in Norfolk for choice—the house and the surroundings were just what I wanted.”

“I don’t believe a word you’re saying,” she declared shortly.

Mr. Johnson, himself something of an adept in the art of guarded conversation, was taken thoroughly aback. For a moment he could think of nothing to say.

“Why do you want to come and live in a house in an out-of-the-way village like this—a house, too, in which another man was murdered? Do you wish me to believe that it was chance, or, perhaps, morbid curiosity, or had you another reason?”

“My dear madame,” Mr. Johnson assured her, “as to morbid curiosity, not a soul even mentioned the matter to me till after I had paid over the contract deposit and secured the lease of the house.”

“Never mind whether they mentioned it or not,” she persisted, her fine eyes challenging his. “Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t know about it?”

Mr. Johnson, thoroughly on his guard now, adopted a soothing tone.

“How could I?” he expostulated. “I am a complete stranger to this neighbourhood, and, as a matter of fact, I have spent most of my life abroad.”

“The man who was murdered,” she continued—“you know he was my brother—had also lived abroad. Had you met him?”

“Coincidences are scarcely likely to multiply themselves,” he remarked drily. “I hail from New York and your brother, I understand, had spent most of his life in China.”

She lay quite still for a moment, her hands clasped. She seemed to be considering.

“There is an idea here,” she recommenced abruptly, “that you are either a detective or that you have come here determined, for some reason of your own, to solve the mystery of my brother’s murder, that you knew all about it before you came, that you took the house on purpose. What about that?”

Her eyes seemed to be trying to bore their way through to the back of his head. Mr. Johnson remained imperturbable.

“My dear lady,” he protested, “I can assure you that this is a foolish fancy.”

She had raised herself a little, and she sank back now amongst the cushions. The hard insistence had gone from her eyes but she was still uneasy.

“I hope,” she said, “that you are speaking the truth. I hope you are.”

“Mr. Endacott,” he reflected, “was, as you have just reminded me, your brother.”

“He was,” she admitted.

“Then why,” he asked, “do you feel so strongly upon the matter? I mean, supposing I were a detective—which I am not—or an amateur criminologist, or anything of that sort, bent upon discovering the secret of the crime at the Great House; surely you should welcome my efforts. Why not?”

A gleam of horror lit her eyes.

“You know nothing about it,” she cried. “It is not a matter for any one to meddle with. Ralph was my brother, it is true, but he is dead and there is an end of it. I am his nearest surviving relative. It is for me to say. It is for no one else. If any one dares to interfere they shall suffer.”

Once more she sank back, exhausted, amongst her pillows. Mr. Johnson bent over her with the air of a doctor soothing a refractory patient.

“My dear neighbour,” he begged, “please believe that I am here for no evil or malicious purpose whatsoever. Under no circumstances should I ever take any course likely to bring distress upon you. I am not at all the sort of person you think I am.”

“I trust not,” she acknowledged a little wearily. “Have you taken a fancy to my companion?”

“I wouldn’t go quite so far as that,” he answered, smiling, “but I must confess that I find her a very pleasant young person. I was just off alone to Norwich and I thought that the ride there might amuse her.”

“Very well,” Madame decided, “you can take her. Come in and see me again some time. Come as often as you like. I am not altogether satisfied about you. I wish I were.”

The door was quietly opened, and Miss Besant appeared, dressed for her excursion. Madame waved her hand in a little gesture of dismissal.

“Is there anything I can do for you before I go?” the young woman asked.

“Nothing,” was the curt reply. “It will take you, I suppose, an hour to go to Norwich, an hour to frivol there, and an hour to return. See that you do not exceed that time.”

“Very good, Madame.”

“And Mr. Johnson!”

“Madame,” he answered, looking back from the door.

“Come and see me to-morrow about the same time, unless you are engaged. If so, find out from Miss Besant what time will suit me. That is all. Good afternoon.”

Mr. Johnson followed his companion across the hall and out into the street. He was feeling a little dazed.

“Madame,” he remarked, “has a great deal of character, and also vivacity, for an invalid.”

The girl remained silent. She climbed into the car with a little murmur of pleasure.

“Madame,” she declared, settling herself down contentedly, “is very much stronger than she used to be. I shouldn’t be in the least surprised if she recovered altogether, and then she won’t need a companion any longer.”

Mr. Johnson swung round the corner with the skill of a practised driver.

“In that case,” he observed, “my sympathies are divided.”