nailed on these two arms," and she pointed to a giant oak not far from
them, which John Derringham pretended to recognize.

He tried his best to get her to talk to him, but some cloud of timid
aloofness on her part seemed to hang between them, and very soon below
the copse they came to the one vulnerable part in all the haw-haw's
length. She showed him how to take the bricks out and where to place his
feet, and pointed out how secluded from any eye the place was. Then, as
he climbed down and then up again, and looked across at her from
Wendover lands, she said a sedate good-by, and turning, went on among
the thickly growing saplings of the copse and, never looking back, was
soon out of sight.

John Derringham watched her disappear with a strange feeling of ruffled
disquietude in his heart.




CHAPTER XI


It was so warm and charming an April day that Mrs. Cricklander and some
of her friends were out of doors before luncheon, walking up and down
the broad terrace walk that flanked Wendover's southern side.

It was a Georgian house, spacious and comfortable, but not especially
beautiful. Mrs. Cricklander was a woman of enormous ability--she had a
perfect talent for discovering just the right people to work for her
pleasure and benefit, while being without a single inspiration herself.