"Yes, I do know. I was admiring your scientific enthusiasm in the cause of 'old stones,' as my niece calls them, that induced you to stick it all that time."

"Induced me? Why I couldn't get out," was the short reply.

"No. You can't open that door from the inside. It'd be the most deadly place to get shut up in if no one knew you were there. Rather."

There seemed a latent meaning in the words, at least, so Helston Varne found himself reading them.

"Well, you'd better have a whisky and soda now, or at any rate a copious mouthful of three star--that'll warm you up more," went on Mervyn in the most matter of fact way, and diving into a sideboard he produced both.

This time Varne did not decline. The revivifying warmth, the blessed light of day, were fast counteracting his resentment. Still, not altogether, for he said in a half amazed, half joking manner:

"I suppose I must congratulate you on carrying out a practical joke thoroughly when you do undertake one, Mr Mervyn. But at the same time it might prove dangerous with some people. According to British law turning a key on an independent fellow-subject is a ground for action for false imprisonment."

"Law--did you say?" returned Mervyn, in a gouty, gusty sort of way.

"Why, I was administering law what time you were being smacked in the nursery--or ought to have been."

This was a pretty nasty one for Helston Varne, somewhat famed clearer-up of mysteries. But he took it equably. The other eyed him not in the least kindly.

"Who turned any key on you?" he said abruptly.

"Well, I was locked in there, wasn't I?"

"Not by me--and certainly no one has been in here since," answered Mervyn. "Just try that door handle, will you?"

"I don't know that I will," laughed the other, again becoming alive to the importance of keeping up his character of artistic--and unprofessional stranger. "I think I've had about enough of it. There's something uncanny about it. I'd better keep away from it."

"All right then. Look here," Mervyn went to the door and turned the handle--there was no key in the lock--then opened it slightly.

"That's all right, Mr Mervyn," answered the other, with a jolly laugh.

"I wasn't serious in what I said. Besides, I can take a joke as well as anybody. Don't you worry about that."

"I thought it only the thing to leave you undisturbed while you made your investigations," rejoined Mervyn, "but seem to have left you too long. And now, if you're ready for lunch--so am I. It's later than usual, but there's no point in waiting any longer."

Varne glanced at the clock opposite. It was nearly two. When he had entered his recent prison it was just half past twelve. He had spent an hour and a half nearly, down there in the cold and darkness. Heavens!

and it seemed eight times that period. His resentment partially revived with the recollection, and he was about to refuse, when a sound struck upon his ears, the sweet, clear, full voice of a girl. That decided him.

"Well, thanks, Mr Mervyn, I think I am too, after my morning's experiences," and he laughed again.

"We're late, Joe. I told you we should be," the voice was saying.

"You'd much better have let me drive. Now bring in the things--you can put up the trap afterwards."

The visitor, listening, thought he had never heard quite such a voice.

And then its owner appeared.

She came into the room mapped in large warm furs. The day, though bright, carried a sharp tinge in the wind, and had imparted a delightful pink glow to her cheeks, and the blue eyes were dancing. The visitor did not miss the effect of the straight firm walk, the erect carriage of the golden head, crowned with an exceedingly becoming toque.

"Just fancy, Uncle Seward," she began--and then stopped short as she became alive to the presence of a stranger. Her uncle introduced them.

No stiff or conventional bow, but out went a long, gloved hand, in frank, easy fashion, and the straight glance of the blue eyes met those of the other, in which surprise and admiration would hardly be dissembled. Helston Varne remembered his p.r.o.nouncement upon her when talking with Nashby. "She's lovely, and so uncommon looking." Now it came home to him, that if possible, he had even then hardly done her justice. A new light seemed likely to lead away from the Heath Hover mystery.

"I suppose you've been into Clancehurst, Miss Seward," he said. "Do you find the shops there fairly satisfactory?"

"Oh yes--on the whole. It's a jolly little place and has a ripping old church."

"'Old stones,'" thought the guest to himself, with a smile. Then aloud, "I hear you're a great antiquarian, Miss Seward."

"I don't know about that, but I'm awfully keen on old architecture, and old art in general."

"You've got a kindred spirit then, dear," said Mervyn. "Mr Varne has come over to look at some of our antiquities. He went into ecstasies over the door," with a nod behind him in that direction, and a very humorous look crinkling round the corners of his eyes.

"Did you?" turning to the stranger, in her bright, brisk, natural manner. "Yes, it's awfully quaint--but--there's a something about it.

Did you go into the old cellar? You did?" as she read the affirmative on the faces of both men. "Well, didn't it give you the cold shivers?

I can tell you it did me, the two or three times I've been into it.

There must be a spook hidden away down there, but thank goodness that door is thick enough and heavy enough to keep it there."

"But I thought spooks were traditionally independent of such trifles as bolts and bars, Miss Seward," said Varne with an amused smile.

"Of course. It's the moral effect, I suppose, for it's difficult to imagine anything being able to get through such a solid ma.s.s of oak as that. But it's a splendid old door."

She had shed her outer furs and had sat down to table. Helston Varne was watching her keenly, though of course not seeming to do so.

Whatever mystery Mervyn was mixed up in, this girl was entirely outside it, even as he had imparted to Nashby, and more than ever now was that opinion confirmed. And with that sop to professionalism he dismissed the same, and fell to giving himself up to studying the rare, fascinating personality, thus unexpectedly unfolded before him. But he turned the conversation on to what he saw was a very congenial topic with her, and soon she got launching Ruskin at him; and, glowing with her subject, talked not a bit as though she had never known of his existence half an hour ago. Mervyn, the while, his sense of humour thoroughly tickled--although somewhat grimly so--was observing the pair, with an inward twinge of dissatisfaction, which, as his said sense of humour entirely enabled him to realise, was essentially selfish. For his guest was an exceptionally good-looking man, who talked with knowledge, and well, moreover; and had--what for want of a better definition he defined as--a way about him. And thinking thus, the side of the other's visit which had been with him all the morning and up till now, seemed to slide into a back seat. What had ousted it was the consciousness of how Melian seemed to be "cottoning" to the engaging stranger.

Then in the glow of a discussion which she was thoroughly enjoying, she got up suddenly to move some of the things.

"The old woman who usually looks after us is shamming again, Mr Varne.

At least, she isn't really shamming, but I always tease her by telling her she is," Melian explained. "So I'm afraid it's a case of taking things as they are."

Helston Varne at once scented a chance of further insight. Now he could get, at first hand, what was rumoured at second--the reason why Mervyn never kept indoor servants. But immediately he felt ashamed of the thought. Professionalism under these circ.u.mstances could go hang; under them, if he couldn't sink the "shop," when could he? In fact, if it came to that he would.

Just then, taking advantage of the door being open, the little black kitten made its way in and jumped up on Melian's lap as she sat down again.

"No, no, pooge-pooge, not _on_ the table," she said decisively, restraining a move on the part of the little thing to jump up there.

"Uncle Seward has got you into bad ways--in fact, thoroughly spoiled you--and now you'll have to get out of them."

"What a jolly little fluffy ball," said Helston Varne, thinking what a picture was here before him, these two graceful creatures, the human and the animal, every movement on the part of either one that of perfect prettiness and grace.

"Do you like them, then?" Melian asked, flashing her bright glance at him.

"Yes, if only they would stay small."

"I'm so glad. But I think this one will, there are kinds, you know, that never grow large, and I like them best that way myself." And then she launched forth into another favourite topic, and here again Varne met her on her own ground, and with knowledge. And here again Mervyn was observant, and had misgivings.

Now all of a sudden something he had been puzzling over took light, and it was caused by a casual remark on the part of this somewhat strangely formed acquaintance.

"Have you been in India?" he interrupted, abruptly.

"Yes, a little."

"Where?"

"In the North West Provinces, and the Northern border."