glanced at a colleague with a slight flicker of one eyelid.

"Wonder who chucked that jug of water!" he said.



CHAPTER II

CONCERNING FOOLS


In the huge, oak-panelled hall of the Abbey, Sir Beverley Evesham
sat alone.

A splendid fire of logs blazed before him on the open hearth, and the
light from a great chandelier beat mercilessly down upon him. His hair
was thick still and silvery white. He had the shoulders of a strong man,
albeit they were slightly bowed. His face, clean-shaven, aristocratic,
was the colour of old ivory. The thin lips were quite bloodless. They had
a downward, bitter curve, as though they often sneered at life. The eyes
were keen as a bird's, stone-grey under overhanging black brows.

He held a newspaper in one bony hand, but he was not apparently reading,
for his eyes were fixed. The shining suits of armour standing like
sentinels on each side of the fireplace were not more rigid than he.

There came a slight sound from the other end of the hall, and instantly
and very sharply Sir Beverley turned his head.

"Piers!"