The Rector—who did not know shorthand—was impressed by the dots and dashes with which his friend covered pages of his note-book. Ignatius—who did not know shorthand, either—had counted on making this effect. He guessed accurately that the Rector would rank an ordinary Commercial-College accomplishment higher than his own exceptional memory.

Like the most successful diplomatists of history, the Rector had discovered that a queen likes to be treated as a woman; his voice was deferential, but his eyes were more independent, as he sank by her side.

Although her sea-blue eyes looked demure, she was up to every move of the game, and knew exactly when to drop her prayer-book, and where to pitch it. Ignatius gave himself away completely, for he leaped instantly across the aisle, to pick it up. In order to return it, he had to stretch across Miss Mack; but she appeared unconscious of the incident,

He had often played golf with Major Blair—who was a man of typical sporting cut, and usually accepted as handsome, on account of a good build.

Even as Marianne anticipated, her party was not a success, although she herself was partly to blame. She was too self-centred and restless to make a good hostess; when she talked to a guest, her eyes were elsewhere, and she rarely listened to what was said.

At present, there was only one authentic case of illness, and that was at the Hall. But the seasonal hay fever and rheumatism had sent out their usual preliminary notices. Two wealthy maiden-ladies walked in their garden in the cool of evening and admired their flowers. As the elder straightened herself from stooping over a bed of pansies, she

“Don’t you pity her,” advised Ada. “She made her own bed when she put herself up. Now, she’s neither flesh, fowl, or good red herring.” “Oh. So she’s been promoted recently?” “Yes. She used to do house-work, like us. But she smarmed Miss Asprey, so now she’s a sekkertary. She sits, all day, with Miss Asprey, and hardly speaks to us.”

Suddenly, he remembered Mrs. Scudamore’s cancelled party, and he wondered if there was any connection between it and Major Blair’s anonymous letter. His heart hammered, and his head began to swim at a new and horrible possibility. He asked himself whether others in the village had also received poison-letters, but had kept their own secrets. As he

She guiltily hid her cigarette behind her back, as a middle-aged couple advanced, arm-in-arm, over the cobbles. The man had a clean-shaven, long-lipped, legal face, to proclaim him a lawyer with the best County connection, together with a nose which had been in his family for centuries.